Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [93]
I could see through the face veil, though not distinctly. The man who entered the room was only a blur at first; when he came nearer, I made out the form of a man bowed with age, leaning on a staff. I hauled myself to my feet, to the consternation of the handmaidens, lined up in two rows before my chair.
“Murtek! Can it be you?”
I had spoken English. The answer was in Meroitic. “The High Priest Murtek, the worthy, went to the gods long ago, lady. I am Amase, High Priest of Isis, First Prophet of Osiris.”
I ought to have anticipated that. Murtek had been an old man when I knew him. I felt lonelier than ever.
“Then I order you to tell me why I was taken away from my friends. Where are they? What has happened to them?”
“The Great Ones? They dwell in the house where you were before your servants brought you to your own place. They are content, they are honored, they rejoice.”
I let out a squeak of hysterical laughter. I could picture the “rejoicing” once they realized I was gone: the Professor shaking his fists and cursing, Aunt Amelia brandishing her parasol, and Ramses…He wouldn’t show emotion, not Ramses; he would be thinking and planning.
“Have they been told where I am?”
“They are with the king now, lady.”
“I want to be with them. I want to see the king. Take me to him at once.”
I hadn’t expected those orders would be obeyed, nor were they. The old gentleman made a long speech, full of circumlocutions and ambiguities; but I got the idea. The goddess must be brought back to her empty shrine—by me and no other. He would help prepare me for the ceremony. It must be faultless. There could be no mistake in movement or word.
He didn’t say what would happen if I did make a mistake—divine retribution, by Isis in one of her less pleasant attributes? I sat in silence, my mind racing, while he backed away, bowing. I was perfectly willing to go through with the performance, supposing I could remember it; but why hadn’t Tarek simply asked me to do it? Why hadn’t he come to me, his little sister, his friend?
“Wait!” I said sharply. The old gentleman jerked to a stop and I went on, “The Horus Tarekenidal is my brother. I will bring the goddess back to her shrine after I have seen him and spoken with him.”
Amase threw up his hands. “Do not say that name again! It is forbidden, it does not exist. The Horus is Mankhabale Zekare.”
“What has happened to Tarek?”
The old man put his hands over his ears—in order to avoid hearing the forbidden name, or because I was screaming at the top of my lungs. He limped out. I took the nearest handmaiden by the shoulders and shook her till the veils flapped. “What has happened to him? Is he dead? Answer me!”
“Not dead, no,” she panted. “Gone.”
“Where?”
“Far from here. Lady, please—you hurt my neck—”
I let her go and sank back into the chair. “It is bad news he has given me, Daria,” I said. “Many things are now clear.”
She edged forward. “I don’t understand, Nefret. Did you speak to me?”
I had spoken Meroitic. I caught hold of her hand. “Please stay with me, Daria. Talk to me—in English. Remind me of who I am.”
It was something of an anticlimax to observe, on the right-hand side of the pylon, a smaller male figure presenting an ankh—the symbol of life—to the nose of a seated king. The smaller person had the braided side lock that indicated youth, and its nose was considerably larger than that of the king.
Zekare appeared quite pleased at the effect of his little surprise. When he indicated that the audience was over, we went unresisting. Emerson kept muttering, “Good Gad! Good Gad!”
After we had gone a little way down the entrance corridor I said thoughtfully, “I wonder that the new king would leave that relief. Surely it must be the one Tarek promised he would commission in order to honor us, and therefore the royal image must be his.”
Ramses had been somewhat disconcerted by his own image—the nose was really a bit much—but he had the answer to my question. He usually does.
“The cartouche has been changed, Mother. That was standard procedure in Egypt, if