Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [117]
Ramses hastened to offer the support of his arm. A clawed hand closed over it and a pair of clouded eyes stared up at him. He didn’t need to ask who, or rather what, she was: the village wise woman. There were always such women, healers and seers, intermediaries with the supernatural for people too humble to approach the great gods directly. In medieval Europe they had been called witches.
“Sit here, Mother,” he said, hoping the title was acceptable. “You foresaw my coming?”
Her cackle of laughter was like the scrape of rusty metal, but her voice was stronger than he had expected, with an unmistakable ring of authority. “You do not believe. It does not matter. Believe this, then. I am trusted by Tarek, his representative in this village. Will the other Great Ones come?”
Ramses resisted the temptation to point out that she shouldn’t have had to ask. “They can’t. Not yet. But I promise you, we will not leave the Holy Mountain until the rekkit are free and Tarek is on his throne again.”
“Will you stay here tonight?” the father of the family asked. “Will you eat?”
“He must not stay,” the wisewoman said. “They will look for him in the village. In the morning they will come.”
It didn’t require clairvoyance to figure that one out, Ramses thought. He nodded agreement. “All I want is information. Where is Tarek? How can I reach him?”
“The boy will take you,” the woman of the house said.
“Your son?” The quick desperate look she gave the boy confirmed it. “No. It would be too dangerous for him.”
“I am not afraid,” the boy said, squaring his shoulders.
“I can see you are brave,” Ramses said, putting his hand on the boy’s bony shoulder. “But you are the only son, is it not so? Stay here. Tell me where to go.”
“He will take you part of the way,” the wise woman said. “Past the guards and into the hills. There you will find another guide, one of the men of Tarek who keep watch.”
“The king knows you are here,” the father said. “We sent word, and he sent word back to us, by the paths known only to us. Steep, dangerous little paths, suitable for rats.” His mouth twisted as he repeated the word the contemptuous nobles had used for their slaves.
“Then they will suit me,” Ramses said.
The mother had put together a little bundle containing food and a water jar. The boy slung it over his shoulder. His eyes shone with excitement and pride.
Ramses was burning with curiosity about a number of things—how long Tarek had been out of power, the circumstances surrounding his fall, the extent and effectiveness of the network that worked for his return—but time was passing and they must be in concealment by morning. He tried to think of something to say. There was no word for luck in the language of the Holy Mountain.
The old wisewoman had withdrawn into her wrappings. Only her eyes showed. “The gods be with you,” she mumbled.
“And with you.”
“Tell the king we will be ready when he sends word.”
“Ready,” Ramses repeated. “Ready for what?”
But he knew what she meant. Revolution, an armed uprising. Armed with sticks and stones.
“The king will know,” she said. “Go now, the hour is late.”
The following hours dealt Ramses’s self-esteem quite a blow. He prided himself on his skill at rock-climbing, but the terrain was unfamiliar and the night was dark. Meekly he let the boy guide his feet and hands from one hold to another as, avoiding the stairs, they ascended the rocky wall to the level of the road. When he peered over the low parapet he saw that they had crossed the valley and were on the eastern side, below the abandoned villa he and his parents had occupied before. None too soon, either. Looking back, he saw the lights of torches spreading out across the floor of the valley. Most of them were clustered in the village.
“Your family. Will they be all right?” he whispered.
“Yes. Come. Hurry.”
There were more moving lights near the