Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [90]
“Yes, yes, never mind the rest of it,” said Emerson with a dismissive gesture.
The king nodded benignly. He was a fine-looking man, with a broad brow and the lean, hard body of a soldier. I would have put him in his late thirties.
“What has happened to Tarek?” I demanded. “Did he die, then, of the strange sickness, and the child too?”
Merasen laughed and Ramses, who was watching him like a cat with a bird, said, “The strange illness was a lie, wasn’t it, Merasen? A lie designed to bring us here. Is Tarek dead—of another cause, such as assassination?”
Merasen translated this speech and the ones that followed; and very odd it was to hear the older man’s deep baritone followed by the boy’s higher voice, like a piping echo.
“He is not dead” was the royal reply, accompanied by a contemptuous sneer. “He ran away, like the coward he is, with those few who were loyal to him. One day when I have nothing better to do I will crush them like beetles.”
None of us had accepted the king’s invitation to “sit ourselves.” Emerson stood with arms folded, looking down on the king. It was a deliberate act of rudeness, for persons of lower rank are required to kneel or sit so that their heads are not higher than those of their superiors. The king appeared more amused than offended. If I had not known him to be a usurper, and his son a cheat and a liar, I would have thought him quite a pleasant fellow.
“Be damned to that,” said Emerson. “I want to know what you have done with Nefret. It must have been you, or those acting by your orders, who took her and her friend away, coming like thieves in the night, violating the honor of your house and the hospitality owed to strangers.”
It was quite an eloquent speech, in my opinion, and Merasen must have translated it accurately, for the king’s jaw tightened. Without waiting for a reply, Merasen said smugly, “The priestess is safe again in her house with her handmaidens. The shrine of the goddess is no longer empty.”
“And the other girl?” Ramses demanded.
“The servant of the priestess is with her. The goddess has accepted her.”
I said, “Do I understand you correctly, Merasen? Nefret has been brought here to resume her former role of High Priestess of Isis?”
“She has always been High Priestess, lady,” Merasen said. “For she never chose a successor. When she was taken from us, the goddess abandoned her shrine and the prayers of the faithful were not answered. Now the goddess too will return.”
“My goodness,” I said, finding myself at something of a loss for words, and distracted by seeing a slight movement of one of the curtains behind the dais. They must cover doorways or niches. There had been a similar arrangement in the great throne room—and one of the curtained niches had been occupied by the highest of high priestesses, the God’s Wife of Amon, whose power was even greater than that of the king. As we discovered later, to our horror and dismay, she was Nefret’s mother, who had lost her mind and forgotten her true identity. My attempt to save her had been in vain; she had perished of pure rage and an excess of spleen. Was her successor lurking therein? I decided there was no harm in asking.
“Is the Heneshem present?” I inquired, interrupting a loud speech from Emerson, who was demanding to see Nefret.
He stopped shouting and stared at me. “Good Gad, Peabody, the woman is dead. She—”
“Must have been succeeded in the position by another woman. Someone is there,” I said. “Behind the curtain. I saw it move.”
Merasen stared too. “Why do you ask about the Heneshem? She is not there, she is in her own place. She has no power here. It is my father who—”
“I insist upon seeing Nefret,” Emerson shouted. “How do I know she is unharmed?”
“You will see her soon. After she has resumed her duties. Who would harm her? She is the most honored of women, beloved of the goddess.”
Ramses put a heavy