Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [92]
One of the maidens bent over me, opened my loose robe, and placed her hand over my heart. The handmaidens are physicians here, and they know about “the voice of the heart.” She smiled and nodded, and another girl approached with a cup containing a liquid of some kind.
Like the switch of a torch bringing light, I was suddenly in control of myself again. Can you guess what did it? It was the sight of my own body, Lia—a woman’s body, not that of a thirteen-year-old whose breasts have just begun to grow.
I sat up and pushed the cup away. “No. How did I come here? Where are my friends?”
The handmaidens clustered round. I didn’t recognize any of their faces. Another sign, if I had needed one, that time had passed. All the ones I had known—Mentarit, Amenit—had grown to maturity and left the service of the goddess. The girl who held the cup—she had a round-cheeked face with full, pouting lips—thrust it at me again. I pushed it so hard, some of the liquid spilled onto her pristine robes. I enjoyed doing it.
First things first, as Aunt Amelia would say. I was terribly thirsty, but I was afraid there might be some drug in the liquid—wine, from its appearance. “You drink first,” I ordered, pointing at the cupbearer. She scowled as she obeyed, but my imperious manner impressed the others. One of them, a sweet-faced girl of about thirteen, ventured, “Does the priestess wish her servant to be brought to her?”
They meant Daria. My heart lifted at the sight of her—someone from my own world, another verification of reality. She was clad in the night robe she had worn when she went to bed and her hair hung down over her shoulders. I jumped up, pushed through my hovering attendants, and went to her.
“Are you all right?”
She was a little pale, but quite composed. “They have treated me well.”
“Do you remember what happened?”
“Men took us away, in the night. You were sleeping soundly. I woke and tried to call out, but one of them covered my mouth and carried me away. What will they do with us?”
I was beginning to get a pretty good idea of what they meant to do with me. After we had been served food and drink, I submitted without protest to the all-too-familiar rituals—being bathed in several waters, anointed with oil of lotus, dressed in sheer linen and the ornaments of the High Priestess—the broad, beaded collar, the brightly embroidered sash, armlets and anklets, and the curious little cap of golden feathers. The process took the entire morning. The only answer I got to my incessant questions about the others was a repeated promise: “The High Priest will come soon.”
“He damned well better,” I said to Daria. One of the handmaidens—the scowly one—had tried to send her away, remarking that I didn’t need lowborn servants, but I insisted on keeping her with me, and in that matter at least my word was law.
“They treat you with great reverence,” she said, watching one of the girls clasp a bracelet round my wrist.
“I seem to have been conscripted for my old position,” I said, trying to smile. “I am desperately worried about the others, though. If it was only me they wanted…”
“But you have power. They obey you. You can speak for your family.”
“I hope so.”
The heavy ornaments settled into place. I remembered only too well the helpless feeling the sheer weight of them brought: the collar pressing down onto my shoulders, the bracelets weighing my arms. The last step was familiar too: long translucent veils of white draped around me and over my head and face. Stiff-limbed as a doll, I was led into an adjoining room and guided to a thronelike chair. No one tried to stop Daria when she followed and took up a position behind the chair. I felt a thrill of gratitude for her presence and her astonishing composure. I certainly wouldn’t have blamed her