Spell Bound (A Fairy Retelling #3) (2 page)

The few people that are still out at this time time of night give the small company a wide berth. Two of the guards flank Aniya on each side while other palace guards carry the high priest on the sedan, its long poles supported on their strong shoulders. The procession passes by a few homes of people Aniya knows, and those that see her gawk as she passes by. Her cheeks flush with heat and the sting of welling tears pricks her eyes, but she quickly blinks the tears back. Aniya wonders briefly how the gossip will run through the city like the Nile itself, bloated and overflowing with whispers of “Did you hear?” Everyone loves a good scandal; few things are quite as satisfying as being the first to share the news of the farmer’s daughter who was taken to the palace by the high priest himself.

It doesn’t take long to reach the palace. In the middle of the city, the palace of Pharaoh sits on the bank of the Nile, flanked by towering statues of pharaohs and gods of the past.

The high priest waves a dismissive hand at the girl and the guards flanking her sides. “Take the girl around to the servants’ entrance, and place her in one of the holding cells in the dungeon. We don’t want her to run away without paying her dues, now do we?” Aniya looks up at the high priest still reclining on the sedan, and he gives her a cruel smile. She forces a smile on her own lips and regards him with the bravest look she can muster.

The two remaining guards lead her around to a nondescript side entrance. No towering statues here. Simply two columns on either side of a heavy, wooden door. Her stomach churns and she wipes the slick sweat off the palm of her hands onto her dress. One of the guards knocks, and after few moments the door opens a crack.

The guard says, “Rahotep the Merciful has just purchased this girl to settle her father’s debts. We’re to take her to the dungeon.” The guard gives Aniya a sly, sideward glance and winks at her. He’d heard her over-flattery earlier, and mocks her with it. The door opens wider and a young man close to Aniya’s age, just on the cusp of adulthood, steps out.

“The high priest is many things,” the young man says with a frown, “but ‘merciful’ is not one of them.” He looks her up and down, his frown deepening. Aniya stares straight ahead, but still takes in the measure of the young palace steward. His skin is dark brown like most Egyptians. A wig of short, black braids sits on his head and black kohl makeup adorns his eyes. All he wears is a short, white linen kilt, and though he is still not quite grown, he is tall and well muscled.

“You are nearly as white as linen,” he says. “Don’t you ever go outside?”

Aniya balks at the unexpected question, though it’s not one she hasn’t heard before. No one in her family has skin quite as fair and light as hers. In fact, she has never seen another person in all of Waset with such alabaster skin.

“Not if I can help it,” she answers, her words crisp and sharp.

“I guess you won’t have to worry about sunshine for awhile,” he says. “Not with where you’re going.”

Aniya fixes the boy with a piercing glare. He shares a wide open grin with her in return.

Nehi watches the haughty girl walk down the back hall of the palace surrounded by the guards, then slips the door shut, nodding to the remaining guards standing just inside the entrance. He doesn’t envy the girl. Briefly, he wonders what Master Rahotep will do with her, but knows it will not be pleasant. The girl is no concern of his, and she fades from his memory with each step he takes through the palace towards his own private chamber.

His room is small and windowless, with barely enough floor space to pace four steps, but Nehi sighs with contentment as he sinks down onto his bed. Here he is away from the eyes of the guards, Pharaoh and his wives, and the eyes he fears the most -- those of the high priest.

He is nearly drifting into sleep when a young slave boy pushes aside the linen curtain to his room and delivers the message that Rahotep requests his presence.

“Where? In the sacred chamber?” he asks the young slave, a boy just a few years younger than he. Nehi tries to keep the tremble from his voice, but fear snakes its way into his words.

“No, not there,” the boy reports. “The lord priest is in his chambers.”

A breath of relief rushes from Nehi’s lungs. He thanks the boy for bringing the news and sends him on his way.
It’s not time for the ritual.
Thank the gods.

God
, he reminds himself.
Just one now. Thank Aten, the One God.
He says the words in a silent prayer and leaves his small room to attend to his master’s bidding.

Rahotep stands at an ornately carved wooden table. He’s surrounded by scrolls, so many they fall haphazardly off his desk, littering the floor. His fingers sweep across pages of hieroglyphics like a man parched for knowledge. He pushes aside the scrolls and Nehi notices some of them are star charts and prophesies of Osiris and Isis while others contain partial spells from the Book of the Dead. Rahotep reaches for another and begins muttering to himself again, forgotten constellations and spells cascading from the table.

Silently, Nehi bends over to collect the scrolls, carefully rolling the papyrus around itself and taking care not to crease any of the sacred text. He catches brief phrases and fragments of words as the high priest continues to pour over the star maps and prophesies. Little of it makes sense to his ears at first until he hears Rahotep mutter the words “boy child” and Nehi realizes what has caused the high priest to become so riled up.

His master has been given the duty of finding the next queen of Egypt, but not just any queen. He must find a maiden that will bear Pharaoh an heir, a son. Much of the magic Rahotep has been using as of late has been to find a maiden who is worthy of the honor, but no one has been found quite yet. The few prospects that have been found have not shown clear destinies for bearing a son. The king already has many daughters. He will not need one more. The Vizier must be certain with his choice.

“Boy!” Rahotep bellows. Nehi stops in mid-stoop to look at the high priest. Even though Nehi is now more man than boy, he doesn’t expect the priest to refer to him any other way. He long ago became accustomed to Rahotep referring to him as “boy.”

“Yes, master?”

“I have a small task for you to attend to. A peasant girl was brought here tonight. She’s probably holed up in the dungeon right now. I need you to ascertain if she has any value to me.”

“My lord?”

The priest looks up from the curling papyrus to give Nehi a scowl.

“Find out if she has any skills -- any abilities that could be useful. Her father said she has some competency with weaving. See if that’s true, or if he was simply boasting to save his own skin. Find out if she has any potential as an artisan. If she truly has talent, I may be able to sell her off for a high price.”

“Yes, my lord,” Nehi answers with a bow, places the scrolls he’s collected onto the table, and then makes his way to the door.

“One more thing,” Rahotep says, opening another scroll. “See if she has any propensity for magic as well. She may be useful as a vessel.”

“Yes, my lord,” Nehi nods, trying to ignore the chill that running down his spine with that word.

Vessel.

He hopes for the girl’s sake she has no talent for magic.

Torch light flickers off the stone walls and floor of the dungeon as Nehi makes his way down through the narrow tunnels to the small hallway hidden underneath the palace. The air is slightly cooler in this section of the palace, and the faint light of the torches creates a dark and somber atmosphere cut off from the outside world. A person down here could quickly lose track of time. Nehi had not seen many prisoners in his time at the palace, but those that he had seen were all prisoners of the high priest.
I wonder if Pharaoh ever takes prisoners...or perhaps Rahotep takes enough for the both of them.

The girl’s cell is the last room in the hallway. Outside stands a single guard with spear in hand. Nehi regards him for a moment and motions to the door. The guard withdraws a wooden key from inside his belt and places it into a small hole in the door bolt. With a twist of his hand the sound of pins lifting tumblers echoes off the walls. The guard slides the bolt to one side and unlocks the door. Nehi gives it a gentle push and walks inside the cell.

The girl he met at the side entrance of the palace sits on the floor next to a small pile of river weeds. She holds some in her hand, bent and broken. An unfinished and lopsided woven bowl sits in her lap. Nehi eyes it and doubts it could hold anything without falling apart instantly.

Even in the faint torch light of the room, it’s striking how fair skinned the girl is. The paleness of her skin makes her black hair seem darker, her lips more red and distinct. Although the Great Royal Wife of Pharaoh, Nefertiti, is thought to be the most beautiful woman in the land, this peasant girl could easily rival her. Even the girl’s eyes seem darker and larger than they should be, like two giant pools of ink that see too much. Could they see through him? Could those eyes know who and what he is without him having to say a word?

Those eyes are fixed on him. He’s been caught staring. “I’ve been told your father said you had some talent for weaving,” Nehi says as a greeting. He motions to the basket in the girl’s hands. “It seems he lied.”

The girl attempts to manipulate a thin straw through the holes in the bowl. Lowering her eyes to her work she says, “He also said he’d always take care of me, so it seems like he lied to us both.” Her hands stop and she looks Nehi in the eyes. “Actually, he didn’t lie to you. Just to me. I do have talent for weaving. Unfortunately, the oaf who brought me these weeds doesn’t. None of these are fit for creating the most rudimentary basket, and even if they were, I don’t have the tools that I’d need to create anything of worth.”

The girl moves her hands as she speaks, punctuating her words with grand sweeps of her arms. “If the high priest expects me to work miracles with a bunch of twigs,” she continues, “I am going to have to disappoint him.” She holds the misshapen basket up with one hand. “This is the extent of what I am able to do if I don’t have the proper tools and materials. Even a master sculptor can only create so much beauty with a pile of dung.”

A corner of Nehi’s mouth lifts. “I didn’t realize basket weaving required such special attention to proper tools and technique.”

“No, I don’t suppose you did. Now that you do, I’d appreciate it if you could gather some tools that will help me in my craft so that I can begin to work off my father’s debt. I’d prefer to be on my way home as quickly as possible.”

The smile drops from Nehi’s lips. He doesn’t want to be the one to tell the girl that she’s likely seen the last of her home, no matter how many woven works of art she produces for the priest. In fact, the better she is at weaving, the more likely the high priest will fetch a high price for her when selling her off to wealthy nobleman or woman. She’ll be lucky to stay in Waset. It’s more likely that she’ll end up in another of the Pharaoh’s cities, perhaps Amarna, where Pharaoh is planning to build his new capital. If she is truly unlucky, she might end up the slave of a foreign dignitary, leaving Egypt all together. That is not news he wished to share with anyone, even a girl as haughty as she.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says.

“I don’t suppose you can also manage to get me a different room, as well? It’s dark and cramped in here, and if I’m to do what the high priest wants, I’ll need more space -- and sunlight,” she adds.

“I’m sorry this prison cell isn’t to your liking. Perhaps you’d prefer it if I put you in one of the royal bedrooms?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t. But Pharaoh might.”

“Fine. I’ll stay here for the night, but I really do need someplace where I can spread out and work. That is, if the high priest really does want me to work off my father’s debt with my skill.”

Nehi hesitates. Would it just be better to tell the girl that no amount of weaving is going to pay off her father’s debt? Instead he says, “Tomorrow I’ll see if you can be moved to the servants’ chambers. Perhaps Master Rahotep won’t mind if you move there until…” he can’t bring himself to finish with a lie, but he can’t bring himself to tell her truth, either. “And your tools. We’ll find some tools for you as well.”

“Well then,” the girl replies, still weaving a crooked twig through the misshapen pot, “thank you…” she holds onto the last word, waiting for him to speak and raises an eyebrow at him.

“Nehi. My name is Nehi. I am an initiate of the priesthood.”

“Thank you, Nehi, initiate of the priesthood. I am Aniya, weaver of bent and useless baskets.”

She holds it up to him. Nehi leans over to take it, his fingers brushing hers for an instant as she holds up the misshapen bowl. It happens in an instant. His fingertips warm with the familiar sensation of magic flowing from him and into the girl. Both he and Aniya stare wide eyed as the twisted twigs of the basket shift, smoothe, and reform themselves into a tightly woven vessel.

Aniya snatches her fingers to her chest with a gasp. The now masterfully-formed basket falls to the floor, wobbles for a moment, and then stills.