Queen of Ashes (4 page)

“Yes.” The rightness of it—the simplicity of it—astounds her.

He bends his head and exhales deeply. “You will not regret it, Laila,” he says, his voice ringing with emotion. “I will do everything in my power to make you and your people happy. Do you believe me?”

“Yes.” How can this be happening? But it is. “We must marry soon,” she says, reality beginning to set in. “And secretly, before my advisers can step in. Before...” Before Amosis shows up to claim her hand, bringing wealth and armies and grain. Before Pharaoh sends her a letter saying he is opposed to it for reasons of state. But she can't bring herself to say those things aloud.

She squeezes his hands in hers, enjoying the warmth of her flesh against his, soaking up the look of wild hunger in his eyes. “Let us go to the Temple of Ptah this evening at sunset,” she says. “We will have the chief priest bless our union.”

Marriage. Could she actually have agreed to marry,
tonight
? She wants to laugh. She wants to dance.

Brehan's face lights up with a broad smile. “Yes, my love,” he says, stroking her short dark hair. “I will meet you there.”

* * *

In her room later, Laila hums a little tune as the twins rub sandalwood oil into her skin. Then the binding begins—the tight linen straps to support her breasts, the tight dress squeezing her from shoulders to ankles, the heavy beaded netting over the dress, the massive necklaces and arm cuffs, the golden sandal straps that bite into her feet and lower legs, the heavy wig adorned with carnelian beads, the heavier headdress. Often when she removes these layers of royalty in the evening, she sees a body covered with red marks as if she was a beaten slave.

But she doesn't mind dressing up now. For tonight she will be married.

Sada uses smooth round stones to grind Laila's cakes of makeup on a shiny green marble palette. Sarina mixes the freshly ground powder with water and olive oil, then expertly applies it with small camel-hair brushes. Green malachite for eye shadow. Kohl for eyeliner and eyebrows. Madder root mixed with fat for the lips.

When Laila looks in the mirror, she sees the mask of an Egyptian princess, very similar to the paintings and carvings of herself throughout the city. Very similar to the face on the huge gilded coffin already prepared to house her mummy. She used to think that she
was
that mask, beautiful but cold and dead inside. But now she knows that's a lie. Now she knows that beating in her breast is a human heart full of love and life and excitement.

Sarina claps the colored powder off her fingers and smiles. “We are so happy for you, Princess! Brehan is not a prince, but he can help Sharuna in many ways.”

“Though you must send word to Amosis,” Sada adds quickly, excitement draining from her face. “You told him to return after four months to ask for your hand again, and it has been more than three already. You mustn't let him suffer the embarrassment of coming here only to learn you have chosen another. He is a good man and doesn't deserve to be treated poorly.”

Sada is right. Laila will send word tomorrow.

Sada gathers up the palette full of brushes and grinding stones to wash them, but as she turns, she shrieks and drops it all. The beautiful green marble palette cracks in two, and the brushes and stones roll helter-skelter over the carpet.

Laila turns. Coiled on the window ledge sits a large green snake with a golden diamond pattern on its back. She has never seen a snake that color before. The gods cleverly made Egyptian snakes the color of sand and stone and dust to fade into the background when predators fly overhead.

The snake stares at her curiously as its forked black tongue flickers. No one moves. It might be some god, she knows, watching them, and if so, it will leave when it's ready. After a time, it slides out of the window and disappears.

* * *

As the twins set up wine and cakes on a little table behind her, Laila sits on a gilded chair at the edge of the temple porch looking out over her quarries. The golden-red rock stretching into the distance is crisscrossed with deep vertical pathways and wide horizontal ledges carved out of the earth. It is quiet and empty now, but during the day sun-darkened men in loincloths crawl over the rock wielding hammers and chisels or maneuvering ropes and pulleys to lift chariot-sized blocks. The metallic
tap-tap-tink
of iron tools echoes off rock, along with the loud commands of supervisors and the bellowing of oxen straining to take blocks down to the nearest Nile landing.

To the untrained eye, Laila's land would be mere rocks and sand. But it's actually a treasure pit quickly transformed into gold: limestone, quartz and basalt stretching far into the western desert, cut and shipped up the Nile for use in palaces, temples and other buildings. The natron salt found in the dried beds of ancient lakes is used in embalming. Laila can see the embalmer's complex in the distance, outside the town walls because of its strange caustic smells.

In front of her, the orange-red orb of the sun slowly slides between two purple-gray mountains far in the western desert. Sweet singing comes from inside the temple as the priests bid good-night to the deities. Behind her, the chief priest of Ptah, Manakhtuf, arranges statues of the gods on a makeshift altar so all of heaven can witness the union of Laila and Brehan.

But the chair beside her is empty. She fully expected to find Brehan standing there when she arrived. He must be taking his time dressing and anointing himself with fine oils, or finding her a special gift. Perhaps he plucked a piece of blue from the sky and is fashioning her a necklace to match exactly the astonishing color of his eyes. Or he is conjuring the silver scales off a fish into a crown for her.

She hears a footstep behind her and twists around so quickly she feels a sharp pain in her neck. But it is only one of the old, bald priests going around lighting the torches. He bows to her and shuffles away. She plays with her crystal bracelet, twirling it around and around her wrist. How long has she been waiting? Something must have happened to Brehan. Should she return to the palace and search for him? Has he been taken ill? Had an accident? Is anyone among her ministers jealous enough of this outsider to do him harm?

The air around her is silver-blue now, and she can see the first stars twinkling in a lavender sky. She rubs her left elbow with her right hand. Sada hands her a goblet of wine. She sips automatically. It tastes like ashes.

A thought settles over her with dreary, heavy certainty. He's not coming. He has changed his mind or... Or he has done this on purpose to hurt her. He wormed his way into her heart by saving her people twice. He led her on, making her trust him until she told him her deepest secrets. Then he set her up to wait for him at a marriage ceremony he never had any intention of going to. How he must have laughed as each minute passed and the sun sank lower into the horizon, picturing her there. Worrying. Waiting. She thinks of all those times he barely had a friendly word for her. That should have been a warning.

Brehan is like all the rest.

Men hurt women.

She has been a fool. He has stood her up. Jilted her. Left her alone at the altar.

It's dark now. She smells the burning pitch of torches, sees their shadows moving across the stones at her feet. Manakhtuf is pacing slowly, back and forth between the columns, murmuring ancient prayers. Sada is quaffing wine in great gulps. Sarina nervously fidgets with her bracelets. It's clear to all of them he is not coming. They just don't want to be the one to say it.

She stands up abruptly, toppling the little chair onto the stones.

“It's time to go,” she says.

Chapter Five

AS WAZBA THROWS the Senet sticks, Laila looks up from the game at Sada, who holds her nose, runs down the little pier and, shrieking loudly, jumps into the lake with an explosion of water. Sarina, always less exuberant, dives in elegantly behind her sister. Then the two of them splash water at several of Laila's counselors floating peacefully on their backs. The men struggle up, protesting, and shake fists at the girls, who burst out laughing as they swim quickly away.

Laila smiles, her first smile in over a week. It was right to come here. She knew it the first moment she saw the oasis of Nenen-sekhet shimmering in the distance like a mirage stretching out hope to a man dying of thirst. Rolling across the burning sand high astride her camel, Laila felt a gradual lessening of the pain reverberating through her soul like the blows of a hammer on limestone. Every corner of the palace reminds her of some moment with Brehan. But he has never been with her at the oasis—a day's ride from Sharuna—a magical place of moist air, green palm trees and blue water in the middle of an arid, forbidding desert of endless nothingness.

When she was six, her mother taught her to swim here. The same year, her father taught her to fish, though after the prince returned to his tent her half brother threw her fish back in the lake and broke her fishing rod in two. Still, she has mostly good memories of the place.

Brehan didn't join the caravan, of course. But neither did he leave Sharuna as she feared he would. He sent word that he would stay to oversee the planting of grain, making sure the new pipes and retaining pools didn't leak. She is grateful to him for that, at least. But she hasn't even looked at him since the morning after he jilted her, when he appeared on the tower roof as she chanted prayers to the sun god, Ra, protector of Sharuna.

“Oh, Ra, you god of life, you lord of love, all men live when you shine,” she intoned, palms outstretched toward the cleft in the cliffs where the Nile pushes its way north.

Hearing a footstep, she turned to see Brehan standing in the doorway, rumpled and sweaty, his tunic torn and stained. Her heart skipped a beat. He looked as if he had been in a tavern brawl. She wanted to pummel him with her fists, spit at him, scream at him. But it was bad luck to interrupt the prayers. She forced herself to turn back to the rising sun.

“Oh, Ra,” she continued, her voice tense, “those who follow you sing to you with joy, and they bow down their foreheads to the earth in gratitude for your radiant blessings.” She took a pitcher of wine and poured it on the small stone altar, then drizzled amber honey from a small container, followed by fresh Nile water. She resolved not to lose her dignity with him. She would freeze him to death with an icy voice and cold shoulder.

She intoned the final verse, “Oh, Ra, you giver of all life, the earth rejoices when it sees your golden rays. People who have been long dead come forward with cries of joy to behold your beauties every morning. You go forth each day over heaven and earth. All men live while you shine.” She lowered her arms and her head in a gesture of reverence and held the pose a long moment. Then she slowly turned toward him.

“I am sorry,” he said, stretching out his arms in supplication. “Please forgive me. Let me explain—”

“No need for any explanation,” Laila responded frostily, sweeping a disapproving gaze over his unkempt form.

She moved to brush past him to the stairs. “No,” he said, blocking her path. “You must listen. I went to the garden of the Temple of Horus to gather blue lotuses for you, Laila. For the wedding.”

Blue lotuses, symbol of romantic love, what every man gives his woman to proclaim his love and soften her heart. What a load of crocodile dung.

“My brother found me there. We fought, and I lost consciousness. I didn't wake until nearly morning.”

“
Brother?”
she says, her voice sour as curdled milk. “You never told me you had a brother. In fact, you never told me anything about yourself, did you? After I told you
everything
about me, things I've never told a living soul. I'm sick of your lies. You're just like all the others, aren't you? Now let me pass before I have my guards arrest you. You may stay in Sharuna as long as you help my people, but other than that I will never listen to anything you say again.”

She started down the stairs, her sandals slapping against the stone. But Brehan called down after her, “Princess, don't trust my brother!”

She plays with the crystal water bracelet now, which she still wears on her wrist despite everything, rolling it around and around. She realizes she is grateful to Brehan not just for the irrigation system, but for something almost as important—he taught her that she doesn't want to be alone anymore. She enjoyed the constant companionship, the lively conversations about life and politics and all the ways the two of them could help the people of Sharuna.

If only she could find a man more trustworthy than Brehan, one who wouldn't let her down, who would open up about his past, perhaps she wouldn't have to be alone forever. Her thoughts keep returning to Amosis. He said he would come back in four months to see if she was ready to marry him. At least she hadn't made public her intention to marry Brehan or send Amosis word of it; that was a blessing.

“My lady, it is your move,” Wazba says, bringing Laila back to the here and now.

“Oh, so sorry,” she says, staring at the Senet board. Wazba has already moved most of his pawns off the board and seems poised to enter eternal life completely and win. She throws the four four-sided counting sticks and tallies up the points on each upward-facing side. Thirteen. She counts spaces from her pawns. If she moved this one, it would get stuck in the Hall of Two Truths, and this one would have to start from scratch, and...

“Come swimming with us!” Sada says, standing in front of the canopy that protects Laila from the sun. Sada's dripping wet, short tunic reveals skinny bird legs, and Laila suppresses a smile as she moves her pawn thirteen squares to the symbol of the bird, the House of Happiness. “No,” she says. “I don't feel like it.”

“It would do you a world of good, my lady,” Sarina adds, standing next to her twin with the same bird legs. “I think—”

A guard approaches, bows and says, “Princess, travelers are approaching from the east.”

Wazba stands and buckles on his sword.

Laila asks, “From the mines?” Farther west, outside the borders of Sharuna, Pharaoh's workers mine copper—a vital ingredient for making bronze—and farther even than that, turquoise. Royal mining caravans have the right to stop at her oasis for water and rest at no charge.

“No, Princess. It seems to be a wealthy private citizen, a foreigner with an entourage.”

Laila sighs. Sometimes she envies private women, who can enjoy time with their friends without the constant fear of duty interrupting them.

“When he is settled, send him to see me,” she says resignedly, staring at the board. Perhaps the interruption isn't so bad. She was losing anyway.

* * *

When she enters the tent, it takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to something less than blinding desert glare. After a few moments of blinking, she sees at the far end a man in an elaborate gilded chair, drinking from a solid gold goblet. What strikes her immediately is his resemblance to Brehan—the perfect physique, the dark golden hair, the strong masculine features, though this man's nose and mouth are larger than Brehan's. And he is far more richly dressed, his Egyptian garb revealing the splendid muscles of his tanned chest and shoulders. His white kilt is of the finest linen, his broad belt studded with golden ornaments, and the stones adorning his huge golden collar look like real turquoise, not faience.

He smirks as she strides toward him, his mouth twisting a bit to the left, and she notices he doesn't have Brehan's dimple. His eyes, too, are different. They are as green as the emeralds from the Mafek mines in the eastern desert and have a bold, knowing look. Her heart skips a beat.

Don't trust my brother.

This
has
to be Brehan's brother. How many golden-haired men with a similar face and build are there in Upper Egypt?

Inhaling sharply, she says, “I am Princess Laila of Sharuna.”

“And I am Riel. I believe you have already met my brother,” he says in a bored drawl, as if it is hardly worth his energy to speak.

“This oasis belongs to me,” she says, ignoring his mention of Brehan. “There is a fee to stop here.”

The man takes a leather pouch off the little folding table beside him and throws it at her feet. Its metallic clink tells her it is filled with chunks of bronze, copper, iron or gold. Even if they were bronze, the metal would pay the fee many times over. But the gesture is highly offensive.

She steps over the pouch, standing right in front of him. “Why have you not called on me, as protocol demanded? Why do you offer me insult and disrespect?”

He hands his cup to his servant, stands and looks her up and down with bold appreciation. She feels her skin tingle as blood rushes to her cheeks. Then she sees the blur of a sharp knife blade, feels a quick tug and as Wazba rushes to protect her, she sees the foreigner holding up a lock of her blue-black wig. Wazba stops a pace from him, a glinting dagger in his hand, eyes moving from the stranger to Laila and back.

Riel ignores him. “Because, Princess, I know all about you. And you are as fake as this hair. Any respects I would pay you would be equally fake.” He opens his fingers and the hair floats to the ground.

Wazba pinions the man's arms, causing the knife to fall silently to the rich carpet, and says, “Watch your tongue, you fool, unless you want me to cut it out and throw it on the ground along with the princess's hair.”

Laila raises her hand, and Wazba reluctantly releases him. “Why have you come here?” she asks.

He sighs and crosses his arms. “I am forever cleaning up Brehan's messes, Princess. In case you haven't noticed, he toys with people's affections, makes promises he can't keep. I go around behind him with a broom, tidying up the chaos he leaves behind.”

She feels a quick, almost painful stab of hope that Brehan was telling the truth after all. That this strange, disturbing brother had knocked him unconscious and that was why he jilted her that night. “Did you tidy up behind him ten nights ago in my city?” she asks.

“Ten nights ago?” he asks, green eyes widening in surprise. “No, I was in Memphis then and only reached Sharuna yesterday. I met with Brehan, though, and he told me about what happened that night. He realized he didn't want to marry you, got drunk in a tavern and, well, let's just say he enjoyed himself immensely until he woke up with a hangover.”

Her heart sinks. She was right. He had changed his mind and been too cowardly to tell her. He let her wait there as the sun went down, and wait and wait. She feels anger pounding through her again. Her chest and ears burn hot.

“I came out here to warn you to stay away from him,” Riel continues. “Brehan has some unique talents, as I'm sure you've noticed, but he makes trouble wherever he goes. I hope to take him away from Sharuna soon. Don't be too upset. You aren't the only superficial woman who has fallen in love with a villain.”

Laila wants to slap the arrogance right out of this man, but that would probably make him laugh at her. Instead, she straightens to her full height and says, “Here is a word of advice for you. Leave your brother alone. He is my minister of agriculture. Touch a hair on
his
head and General Wazba and his men will throw you in chains.”

“And here's a word of advice for you, my pretty little princess, because I, too, have certain...talents.” He takes a handful of figs from the bowl next to him and closes his fist around them. When he opens it, his hand is full of gray powdery ash. “Love always turns to ashes,” he says, clapping the ash from his hands. “Power, and power alone, is what counts, what lasts. And you don't have any power.”

Part of Laila wants to understand what she has just seen and who these strange brothers are. But her anger overcomes her curiosity, flaring in the pit of her stomach and burning upward. “I have power,” she counters. “I rule a rich and thriving principality. Pharaoh himself and governors across Egypt highly respect me.”

He opens his muscular arms and gestures around. “You have a lot of rocks. A minor town perched on cliffs. Some fields that don't grow enough grain. This puddle of a lake surrounded by miles of sand. That is a far cry from power. Pharaoh can change his mind and take this from you tomorrow with a snap of his royal fingers.”

Fury courses through her blood, but she won't give in to it. Instead, she slows her breathing and studies him calmly.

“If you want to see my greatest power,” she says pleasantly, “come to Sharuna as my guest, and I will demonstrate it to you.”