Queen of Ashes (3 page)

The stranger's bright blue eyes lock on to hers. “Lady Princess, I greet you and thank you for this audience. I am Brehan,” he says. She hears the twins, standing behind the throne, sigh. Even General Wazba, standing at the foot of the dais, looks the man up and down with approval. This stranger has the sculpted physique of an impressive warrior.

Speech seems to elude her. She has never seen hair that color on a human being. It's jarring, as if the Nile suddenly flowed south instead of north.

And those eyes... Well, she has seen a few people with gray or blue or green eyes, mostly merchants from northern nations trading in Memphis. But she had never seen eyes of a blue to rival the noontime sky, eyes glowing with an unearthly radiance.

He is waiting. She must say something. She wrenches her gaze from this magnificent man and studies the paintings of gods and hieroglyphs on the tall columns next to the throne.

“Brehan of what? Where do you come from?” she demands.

“North of the Great Green, Wodj-wer, you call it, though our people call it the Great Encircled Sea. North of the shattered cities of the Minoans. West over the water from the broken towers of Troy. And farther still.”

Laila rolls her eyes. “How do you come to speak my language so fluently, then?” she asks.

“I speak many languages fluently,” he says, flashing her an impudent white grin. A dimple forms in his left cheek, a tiny thing that makes this glorious foreign warrior more human, more approachable. Laila feels something pleasurable stir in the pit of her stomach.

Still, what he said is not an answer. She shifts in her chair. “Have you heard about the contest of suitors and come here to seek my hand?” she asks archly, surprised at the flirtation in her voice.

“I am not worthy to offer for your hand, lady,” he says humbly. Laila feels a prickle of anger. Eight of the greatest princes of the Known World have just vied for her, and this wanderer isn't interested at all? Why not? Who does he think he is?

He continues, his expression suddenly quite sober. “I have come to tell you a divine prediction. A storm is coming. Fire will fall from the sky.”

The intense interest she felt building in her, body and soul, abruptly drains, and she sits back, bitterly disappointed. She should have known that here was another trickster with visions of disaster that will destroy Sharuna unless she gives him funds to conduct the proper rituals. How many such swindlers has she dealt with in the past? Usually in the form of lashes across their back before she booted them out of the city.

“We don't have storms here,” she says, her voice feeling limp and disappointed compared to her brief burst of enthusiasm for this stranger. “You are in Upper Egypt, remember. It never rains here. I don't think I've seen a cloud in years.”

“Nevertheless, it has been given to me to know that the gods are angry and a storm will come,” he says, his voice full of urgency. “Tonight. It will strike the thatched-roof grain storehouses and utterly destroy them. If I do not intervene, you will be without a single grain of wheat or barley to plant.”

That makes her listen. Hadn't Amosis, not two hours ago, warned her the gods might be angry at her for impersonating them?

She leans forward. “How can I prevent this fire from heaven?” she asks. Then sarcasm drips into her voice. “Should I pay you to placate the angry gods?”

“No, Princess. I desire no payment. Give me as many men and carts as you can to move the grain into the city. Surely you have vast storage areas below the palace and the major temples.”

She wonders if he will try to steal the grain. Is that the trick? Should she clap him in chains and throw him in the dungeon right now? Toss him out of the main gate of the city on his pale northern behind? Or...could he possibly be telling the truth?

She sits back, rubbing her left elbow with her right hand, a habit she's developed since accepting the throne.

“How much do you believe your own prediction, Brehan? Are you willing to bet your life on it?” she challenges, knowing that his eyes will grow wide, his hands will flap like trapped birds and he will say that the gods can change their mind at the very last minute, so no one can truly be sure. She leans forward, licking her lips, waiting expectantly for the equivocation, eager for the panic in his face.

Calmly, he raises cool blue eyes to meet hers and says, simply, “Yes.”

Chapter Three

AS THE TWINS sprinkle perfume on her fine linen sheets, Laila looks out her high tower window and sees the chain of carts and torches as men transport grain into the basements of the palace and temples. It is almost a comforting sight, like the festival of Sobeq, the crocodile-headed god, she attended in Memphis the previous full moon, where statues of all the deities are taken down to the Nile in torchlit carts at night and loaded onto elaborate floating temples at dawn.

Who is this stranger? A charlatan? A powerful shaman? What will she do with him if there is no storm tonight? She doesn't know what she wants: no storm to come so her people are safe? Or does she actually want a storm so the intriguing stranger will be proved right? She tosses and turns until, finally, sleep claims her.

A blast like the crashing of a thousand limestone blocks wakens her in an instant. She sits up in bed, unsure of what is happening. Another blast comes. And another. Lightning illuminates her bedroom as if it were midday.

The storm has come.

The foreigner was right. He was no trickster. He
knew.

She jumps out of bed and looks out the window.
The grain.
Did he get it to safety in time? But she can see nothing. Sheets of rain pour in diagonally through the wide window, hissing like a pit of snakes. Laila has never seen rain in Sharuna. She is tempted to reach for it, to feel its cool wetness on her hands, her face, and wonder at the miracle that only moments ago it was high up in the air.

A flash of light nearly blinds her, and for a moment the bolt looks like a giant, jagged silver-gold knife some god has plunged into the roof below. Tiles explode upward into the air and fall down into the garden in a shower of charred clay fragments. At the same moment, cosmetics scatter off the table, the hairbrush clips her arm and the table itself crashes onto the floor.

The door flies open and the twins, holding oil lamps, stand there in night robes. “My lady,” Sada says as Sarina puts Laila's robe around her shoulders, “it is not safe here. The guards are telling everyone to go to the basement storerooms.”

Sitting in between jugs of olive oil and smoked fish, Laila wonders if she has caused the storm, if she has cursed her people by impersonating Osiris. Around her, courtiers and servants alike pray out loud. Wazba, still wearing his guard uniform of a leopard skin knotted over the left shoulder, sits stoically, comforting Spot, who howls miserably after every clap of thunder.

Another flash of lightning bursts through the slatted shutters high in the wall and Sada moans. Laila put her arms around her. Sada and Sarina are only eleven months younger than Laila, but since they enjoyed happy childhoods, they seem years younger. At nineteen, Laila often feels as if she has enough world-weariness and life experience to be their grandmother.

Could it be that they used to play together as innocent children before Laila was sent to Memphis? They explored every secret passageway in the palace, built centuries ago to escape in time of attack and never used. Even more wonderfully frightening, they played hide-and-seek in the old quarry tunnels beneath the city, the seeker wearing a white sheet and pretending to be a mummy. Once they even slipped unripe elderberry juice into the wine of Laila's nasty stepmother and laughed to hear of her appalling diarrhea.

As soon as Laila returned to Sharuna as the new heir, she chose them as her personal attendants. Their father, a palace scribe, was delighted, and the girls, too. Since then, she has pampered them, trying to give them the sense of fun and security she never had.

Two palace laborers, soaked to the skin, stagger into the storeroom.

“Is the grain safe?” Laila asks, rising to her feet. “Did the foreigner manage to secure it all?”

“We were just emptying the last cart when the storm broke,” says a young man. “We took the horses to the stables, but the stranger kept unloading, even as the rain poured down and the lightning struck all around us. He's still out there.”

Laila grabs a torch off the wall and makes her way to the stairs, only to find Wazba blocking her path. His sword is buckled on, and he's holding his figure-eight-shaped shield of zebra skin. “I will go with you,” he says.

“No,” she commands. “Stay here.”

The courtyard is sunk in darkness; her torch lights only a small circle around her, and then it sizzles in the violent downpour and goes out entirely. She likes the odd sensation of the cool wet hitting her skin, sliding in rivulets down her face, drenching her night robe. Her bare feet slap against puddles, something she has never experienced before.

At the next flicker of lightning, she sees him. He is walking from the main storeroom's entrance and stops not ten paces away from her next to an empty cart, its horse traces on the ground.

“I have just stored the last baskets,” he says as rain streams down his face. His tunic is ripped and dirty, molded to his muscular body, and his wet hair is darker now, more the color of new bronze than gold, and stuck to his head. “The silos' straw roofs are incinerated. The clay walls are blasted away. You would have had no grain to plant for the upcoming season.”

She heaves a sigh, considering how to thank this strange man. As she steps toward him, a sharp pain radiates from the tender instep of her right foot up through her entire leg. Uttering a cry, she bends over to look at it, praying it is not a scorpion. But no. She has stepped on a broken roof tile thrown down by the storm, and it is still stuck in her foot. She winces and lets out a small moan. Blood pours from the wound—it must be very deep—and the pain is unbearable.

Brehan has seen the blood. Without hesitation, he picks her up as though she were another basket of grain and not a princess, and she cries out again, this time in surprise rather than pain.

“What are you—I—stop!” she says.

He carries her to the columned portico, where he sets her gently down and kneels in front of her.

“This is—you must call for the physician,” she demands, trying to gain control of her thoughts—and control of this foreigner, who has no right to be touching her, lifting her, without her consent—even as her foot continues to scream in agony.

“Hush,” he says, raising her leg. He pulls out the jagged clay shard as she bites her lip to prevent herself from gasping in pain, clenching her fists and writhing against the wall. Then he places her foot in his hands.

Someone needs to run to the quarries to fetch little Sabu, the healer of wounds, Laila thinks, and in the meantime Brehan should call the chief physician. She pushes herself up to tell him so but sees that, strangely, his eyes are closed as he continues to hold her throbbing foot. Golden light radiates from his hands.

Suddenly, she feels warmth spreading through the wound. More than warmth. Comfort. Peace. Even ecstasy. She's floating in a pleasure so pure there are no words to describe it. Her foot, and his hands, are burning hot now, though it's not a painful heat, but a joyous one.

He removes his hands, and she is suddenly cold. She wants his hands back on her to keep her warm, but she can hardly say so. Instead, she pulls her foot toward her and examines the sole. There is blood there, but as she rubs it she finds there is no wound. Just the slightest pink line where the gaping slit used to be moments ago.

She has seen this before. It is just like what Sabu can do, the ten-year-old boy from the quarries. She thought Sabu was the only one in the world who could knit flesh and bone with the touch of his hands.

“Who are you?” she asks, her voice no more than a whisper in the loud patter of rain.

“A seeker,” he replies, standing and dusting off his knees.

“What do you seek?” she asks, looking up at him as if he were a god.

“I think...” He takes her hands and pulls her up. She puts her weight gently on her right foot, but there is no pain.

Lightning strikes somewhere just outside the palace. The air sizzles, and she smells something strange and fresh. Brehan seems to crackle with energy and glow with the buzzing light. His flesh pulsates gold, his eyes silver blue. His ripped tunic reveals a silver pendant in the shape of a six-petaled lotus blossom hanging from a chain around his neck, and it, too, glimmers with a strange luminosity. He says, “I think I seek you.”

PART II

Chapter Four

IN THE UNBLEACHED, rough-woven tunic of a lowly servant, Laila walks across the empty retaining pool, her bare feet warm against the smooth limestone. A large straw hat shades her face, but the rest of her feels the warmth of the sun like a kind caress on her skin.

In the center of the pool is a large wooden pole, and all around the edges of the pool are wooden stakes to attach the linen canopy that will prevent evaporation. It may not look like much, but to her it is more beautiful than her magnificent throne room.

It was Brehan who told her the Nile wouldn't flood this summer, and the grain he saved from the storm would not be enough to get her people through an entire year and a half until the next good harvest. He suggested creating a system he had seen at the edge of the Known World, in Bactria: channeling water from the river through underground pipes to a few large stone retaining pools spaced throughout the fields. He would build gates on the sides of the pools that could be raised and lowered to send water into the existing irrigation canals as needed.

Three months ago, when they started constructing the new irrigation system, the governors of neighboring provinces laughed at her, but Brehan foretold a drought and she trusted him.

His insight proved true.

Two weeks ago, soon after the longest day of the year, the river was supposed to start its gradual spread across the flat fields to the south of the city. Every day since then, Laila and Brehan went to her Nilometer, a platform of stone steps in a field next to the Nile, but the water hasn't even come to the first step. By now it should be on the fifth step.

Laila looks up and sees Brehan and Muti, his overseer, striding toward her, Brehan tall and perfectly formed, Muti barrel-chested and bandy-legged. Muti peels off toward the river while Brehan stands at the edge of the holding tank, arms crossed and flashing her an impudent grin.

“Muti is going to open the pipes to this pool. Better hop out or you'll get plenty wet.”

“Oh, I think I wouldn't mind cooling off for a bit,” she says, smiling back at him. “It's hot out here. I'm not used to all this sun. It must be spoiling my complexion.”

“I frankly think you look better with a bit of a glow. And as for a swim, mind if I join you?”

Without actually waiting for an answer, he climbs down the ladder set against the wall and stands beside her. She hears the water before she sees it, a rushing, gurgling sound in the earth. Then it pours out of the two circular openings at the top of the pool, white-foamed and whooshing toward them.

“Perfect!” Brehan says, clapping his hands. “A good strong flow. As I hoped, the river is so narrow at the cliffs that the current is strong even without flood. We'll check for leaks every day from now on, but it shouldn't give us much trouble.”

Laila's gaze lingers on his chiseled features, the brilliant blue of his eyes, as the tickling water inches up over her ankles. Several times, over the past months, she has wondered what it would feel like if he put his strong arms around her and pulled her against him. But the answer is always the same. This wanderer—even if he is a healer of wounds—isn't good enough for her. He's not royal. He's not wealthy. He's not Amosis, whose riches can keep Sharuna safe, who will probably be coming soon to claim her as his wife.

And Brehan has told her almost nothing about himself. Sometimes when she asks about his past, he expertly shifts the conversation to farming, politics or warfare. Other times he reminisces about his travels to the land of long-haired Celts in endless, cool green forests, to the wild Scythians on their horses in the vast seas of grass, to the rich lands of Hind, where men dye their long beards green and ride elephants the size of houses. It seems he can talk expertly about any subject except himself. He cannot be much older than she is, by the look of him, and yet he has experienced so much of the world, it amazes her. She cannot understand why someone who has seen so much would agree to stay here in Sharuna and work for her—but she cannot bring herself to question his loyalty, or to challenge it. She doesn't want to risk losing it. Losing him.

But then there are times when she fears she
will
lose him, when he doesn't talk at all. For days at a time he keeps away from her except for official meetings, working in the fields, eating alone in his rooms. When they do speak, he is cool, aloof, professional. She has found herself going over every word of their last conversation to see if she had offended him in some way. Then, without a word of explanation about his withdrawal, he bounces back again, full of friendship, good cheer and plans for Sharuna.

She slides her gaze back to the water rushing in from the pipes.

“Are you pleased with your new minister of agriculture?” he asks, tilting his head. “Now, that was an honor I never expected.”

“You deserve it, though, and I couldn't be more pleased,” she admits. “Water is more precious to me than jewels. Thank you.”

He shoots her a straight white smile, revealing that adorable dimple, and she feels her stomach do a little somersault. “The worst thing, when a plague comes, is not having sufficient nourishment for the sick,” he says, kicking at the water.

“Plague is coming?” she asks. Osiris, no, not that on top of everything else.

“It usually does in a no-flood year,” he says. “You see, there is no rain here to purify and clean the wells. You need the yearly inundation to bring in fresh water from the south. Without it, illness may take root. We must be prepared. I will help you.”

As usual, she is wordless in the face of his loyalty. Sometimes she fears even thanking him for it will break the spell. They stand, surrounded by the roar and splash and tumble of water until it rises nearly to their knees. She picks up the silver lotus pendant he always wears around his neck and rubs her thumb over the smooth, shiny surface. “What's this?” she asks.

He covers her hand with his. “It's my own design—a symbol of earth and water and sunshine, of nature itself. Would you like one? You have a talented jeweler in the eastern marketplace who could make a mold of this and copy it exactly.”

She nods. “In Egypt, silver is so rare it is more valuable than gold,” she says, turning it over. The back is plain. “I hear in the rest of the world gold is worth much more than silver. Yes, I would like one very much.”

He stares at her as if her acceptance has some deeper meaning. Her heart starts to pound. Her lips part, though she doesn't know what she is going to say. They stand there, inches apart, looking at each other. Something is going to happen. Something that shouldn't.

“Come on,” he says, “we'd better get out of here before we drown.”

Awkwardly, Laila moves to leave. But she stumbles, her straw sun hat falling into the churning tide and bobbing briskly away. Brehan tries to catch her but falls on top of her.

They sit up, laughing, and Laila splashes him full in the face. He splashes her back, and Laila stands, preparing to run away, water pouring off her body. The water arches around her left wrist but never falls; instead, it catches on itself, creating a bracelet. How can that be? She holds up her wrist and taps the bracelet with her right hand. It's as hard as rock and, suspended in the sun, shimmers silver, white and gold. The water has turned to a kind of radiant crystal she has never seen before.

She turns in wonder toward him. “Since it will take some time for me to get you a pendant, and since water is more precious to you than jewels,” he says, “I thought I would give you jewelry made of water to remember the success of the day.”

“What are you?” she whispers. More than just a healer. No mere healer could turn water into a crystal bracelet. Certainly, little Sabu couldn't.

“Nothing more than your most loyal servant,” he says.

He pulls himself up the ladder set against the pool's side and reaches down to help her up. Standing beside him, Laila is aware that her sodden tunic has molded itself to the contours of her body and is almost see-through. Part of her wants to cover herself, but another part wants him to see. She feels his eyes fall on her, hears his sharp intake of breath.

He leans toward her, and now she knows that what must not happen between them
will
happen, is going to happen right now... She leans toward him, too.

But he pulls back with a quick gasp before they touch. “Laila, I...”

“Shh,” she says.

“I have to go,” he claims, moving across the field toward a little tent where he keeps refreshments.

She runs after him. “Stop! Brehan, I command you to stop and turn around.”

Just outside the tent, he turns and stares at her as she approaches him, still dripping wet but burning again in the heat of the sun. She doesn't stop walking until she is just as close to him as before. Then, without allowing all the warnings in her mind to get in the way, she reaches out and takes his hand, placing it on her hip.

It is all the command he needs. He draws her to him, then leans down so that his forehead is touching hers. She feels him breathing softly, as though afraid he'll blow her away. And then slowly, he reaches with his other hand and tilts her face up toward his.

His caution seems to have vanished as suddenly as it came, and passion floods out of him as rapidly as the water in the holding basin. He presses his mouth against hers, gently bites her lower lip, his tongue exploring hers. His strong arms crush her against him. She feels the tautness of his back muscles as desire roars through her veins like the torrents of the Nile in flood. She moans and pushes against him. Every part of her body tingles.

He gently pulls away from her, his breathing ragged, and she's amazed at the magical scent of him that clings to her—citron and sandalwood and some inner essence of himself. She wants to keep it there always, to inhale the joy in it. She looks in amazement at her fingertips; they still tingle from his kiss.

He glances around them, though there are no field-workers nearby. Still, he pulls her into the tent with him.

Once inside, she feels suddenly uncertain. What have they done? And what happens now?

As if to fill the silence, he hands her a cup of wine. They sit.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “Laila, my princess,” he says softly. “I'm... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. Shouldn't have allowed myself—”

“Please,” she says, silencing him. “I wanted you to. I...
still
want you to.”

He looks at her, and she holds his gaze, confidence filling her. She is a princess. She has the power to make her own choices, does she not? Who could marry for love if not her? For that's what this is between them, she knows now. She can name it: love. But does he feel the same?

“Brehan, can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

Heat moves through her. “Do you love me?”

He flushes. “Princess. Would you believe me if I told you that...that I have loved you since I first set eyes on you? I was afraid to make any romantic overtures for more than one reason.”

Laila raises her eyes to his. “What reasons?” she whispers. Her hand starts to shake. She is afraid she will drop the wine.

“For one thing,” he says, running a hand through his hair, “I know you carry a heavy burden, Laila. Something that feels like a wall between us. I hoped you would tell me when the time was right. Is now the time?”

She feels dizzy and takes a deep breath. Should she deny it? Or should she tell him he's right but she doesn't want to talk about it? She has buried it within her for so long, and so deeply, that discussing it now it is like taking an ancient mummy out of its tomb and thrusting it into the noonday sun for human eyes to examine. Should she leave this story buried in its dark tomb, or expose the decayed wrappings and withered corpse?

She feels the smoothness of the bracelet, looks at the shining crystals inside and makes a choice. She will tell him. It is a weight too heavy for her to bear alone anymore.

“It's something that happened long ago,” she says, her voice cracking. “I have never spoken of it with anyone.” Haltingly, she spins out the horrible tale of those three years in the brothel, amazed at herself as she does so. Years of pain come roiling out of the most secret place deep inside her heart. When she is done, she is bone-weary, yet she has never felt so clean. So light.

Somehow, during her story, his strong arms wrapped around her, his cheek rests against her head.

She feels safe in his arms, safe with him beside her. Though she knows nothing about Brehan, she trusts him completely. His advice not only on the new irrigation system, but also on political alliances, trade and new weapons for her soldiers has been impeccable. Everything he has done the past months for her, for Sharuna, has proved she can trust him never to hurt her.

Not all men are bad, she realizes, hanging her head. Not all men hurt women. Perhaps she could be happy with this one. She knows now, irrevocably, that she would be unhappy without him.

“Laila, my beauty,” he says, pulling away from her but placing his hands on her shoulders. “I am so sorry for your pain. I wish I could heal it, but I can only heal physical wounds. Though perhaps love can heal it, over time.”

She nods, wondering if her heart might burst right out of her chest.

“My love,” he continues, “I am not a king, not a prince. I have no lands or wealth to offer you, no armies or grain. And yet, if you let me, I could help your people in many ways, as I have done with the storm and the drought, and the plague that will come. Perhaps I would not be such a useless husband, after all.”

“Husband?” she asks, surprised by the squeak in her voice. Hadn't she just thought the very same thing?

“If you will have me.” His piercing blue eyes bore into hers.

“Yes,” she says, without thinking.
Yes. Yes.

His face lights up with such shining beauty it seems otherworldly. “Yes?” he asks. “Truly?”