Kingmaker And The Scribe E-Book

Connie L. Beckett

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

In ancient Egypt, the venom of a strange, hooded serpent connects two souls.

Reincarnated over and over again, their fates are forever intertwined. In times of both war and peace, one is fated to be the maker of kings and the other the narrator of their shared history. Soon, the two will have to face the one inevitable thing in their existence: change.

From Egypt 2500 BC to medieval Scotland and hundreds of years into the future, the plot of this damnable play never changes.

Leseprobe

KINGMAKER AND THE SCRIBE

CONNIE L. BECKETT

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Part I

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Part II

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Part III

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Part IV

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Part V

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Part VI

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Part VII

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Part VIII

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Part IX

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Part X

Chapter 60

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About the Author

Copyright (C) 2020 Connie L. Beckett

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Donna Russo Morin

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

To my daughters, Cher and Chasta. You are my heart, the inspiration for any adventure, and my fiercest cheerleaders.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A big thank you to the Thursday evening critique gang, and to the members of Kansas Writers, Inc. for their support and advice. A gracious thank you to Donna who edited and provided valuable input on this novel, and who introduced me to Next Chapter.

CHAPTER 1

“I am Ouroboros,” the serpent told them in the time between. “The beginning is the end, as the end is once again the beginning.”

Starship Conquistador

c. 2500 A.D.

“Are you ready, girl?” Wata asks as a chime sounds over the ship’s intercom.

Not a girl anymore, having turned twenty-seven, but this is what he has always called me. I am weary to the very marrow of my bones, but I rise and nod that I am ready. My time has been long, longer than Earth’s rough mountains that have at last slumped into the sea. Now that Wata and I have arrived on this new planet, unfouled by the excesses of humanity, will my journey finally be over? Can I at last rest, my weary body prepared and tucked into the soil of this new planet so that my soul can finally be free to wander the afterlife?

The door slides open to reveal King Gha, surrounded on three sides by his guards. He is grinning.

“Wata, it is the first day in our new land. You too, Rulie, are you happy we have finally landed?”

I bow, which is what is expected of me.

Wata grasps the king’s hand in both of his. “May the heaven that has been our transport entrench us into our — your — new land,” he says and bends to lightly touch his lips to the top of our new leader’s hand.

King Gha looks back at his guards standing stoically. He leans close to Wata and whispers, “Yes, of course, my land with your fine expertise. Our former leader,” this he says in even a softer whisper, “whose name has been lost to the solar winds, was not up to the task, would you not say.”

“Not up to the task,” my friend agrees in the same conspiratorial whisper.

A second alert sounds, this time two short chirps.

“Come, my people are waiting,” this new world’s king says. He links arms with Wata and together they start down the richly adorned corridor with its walls of bright pulsing colors. The three guards fall in behind the two men. I am last in the menagerie that will be the first humans to touch feet on the ground of our new world, already engineered to have the proper composition of air, light, and vegetation.

Wata, as he is named in this life, has always been the crafter of kings, the advisor to both tyrants and presidents. Perhaps, that was the task God assigned his soul but with this last — and his booted foot against the old king’s ass in the airlock — his corruption is complete. Just like the memories of our past lives, coming to full fruition. I will record this as I have all, I pray, for the last time.

PARTI

2

“My fang brings death or the divine,” the serpent told them in the time between. “Only providence will reveal which one.”

Egypt

c. 2500 B.C.E.

“Audax, it is time to gather the grain,” Mother tells me. It is a duty often performed by boys such as me. After a breakfast of dates and curdled sheep’s milk, I pick up the scythe and make my way to the field. Cutting the stalks of grain is a task that I have done many times, and today I do it by rote, watching a herd of goats munch their way along the edge as I swing my sharp tool.

“Watch out!” a voice commands.

Startled, I spin to see the flattened head of the asp just before it strikes my naked leg. The moment stretches and the sun glints on a strange purple cast inside the hooded head. The snake’s eyes are like black wells and I feel their glare tug at my center. This happens slowly, so slowly that I believe I will have an opportunity to flee or perhaps just step to one side. Then time regains its rhythm and a single fang pierces the skin of my calf, pumping a drop or maybe a bowl of poison into my flesh, the fang retracts and the cobra slides past, a second fang spraying death into the dry desert air.

Before the pain can register and I begin the slide into the afterlife, there is another shout and a speared the serpent, pinning it to the ground. Weakly, I turn my head to see a boy, a little older than myself. He is the one who shouted the warning and impaled the creature. Do I know him? He is not familiar like one of my friends in the village but perhaps a visitor I have seen before, coming with his father to trade camels or goods at market.

Then the pain begins, and I writhe like the snake, still alive under the blade of the spear.

“I will help you,” the stranger tells me. “Here, grasp my hand.”

He wraps an arm under my shoulder and lifts. I stand with effort, the edges of my vision glittering like the night stars.

“Hurry,” he tells me. I sink into darkness and know no more.

3

For an eternity I swim in the stream between life and death. There is the comfort of my mother’s voice, and a strange scent as someone places a cool compress against the painful wound. There are moments when I awake begging for water or relief from the sensations that course through my body.

A strange dream intrudes on this passage. The snake, caped in the violet of the gods, speaks to me of times and places I do not understand. I am the witness, he tells me. I struggle to awake from the nightmare, but the snake’s eyes pin me to the vision.

Finally, I return from the underworld. Is this the afterlife? There is the scent of dust and smoke from the fire. Sheep shuffle somewhere outside. I open my eyes and see the ceiling of my family’s hut overhead.

“Audax,” my mother shouts. “Look, Audax has awakened.”

I struggle to rise and find that my father, two brothers, and sister have come to see me. Outside the door of the house, dawn colors the sky. Not the afterlife but real life, the one I had woken to just this morning. Or is it? I remember the snake and look down at the cloth covering my leg. The bite happened at midday, now it is a new day. How long have I been asleep? Or dead?

“Am I dead?” I try to say, but my voice is a croak like the frogs in the rushes by the great river.

“You are not dead, thank the gods,” my mother prays and lifts a bowl so I can drink.

“Hapu’s son, Ibiaw, saved you,” my father explains. “He was exploring while Hapu met with officials and saw the asp strike. He helped you back and advised how to prepare the ointment to pull out the poison. Otherwise, you would be…”

He cannot continue, and my mother is wiping at eyes that I see now are red from weeping or sleeplessness.

“How long…?” I start to ask.

“Two days,” my little sister finishes. “We thought you were dead.”

My sister is one who always speaks bluntly. I wonder if her future husband will tolerate or praise that quality?

“He is not dead. Audax is alive,” she chants as she bolts out of the hut to tell her friends.

My mother helps me rise, and I clean myself of the stink of the sickbed. My body is trembling by the time this is done, and I gratefully drink water and eat the meal she has prepared.

“Audax, come outside,” my father instructs a while later.

My legs still feel weak, and where the cobra bit me throbs, but I am glad to get outside.

“My son, this is Ibiaw. He is the one who saved your life.”

I step forward to grasp his forearm. “Thank you,” I tell him.

Ibiaw is taller than me, his skin bronzed by the sun. His smile is open, and he wears the linen tunic common to the professional elite. I, on the other hand, wear the clothes of the son of the brewer that I am.

“I am glad you are back with the living,” he tells me and there is the smile again.

I sigh deeply. “The gods are generous to lead you to me. I am in service to you.”

He waves a hand dismissively. “I am but a mortal who happened on you and,” this he says with a twinkle in his eye, “your snake friend.”

My father laughs and Ibiaw’s father, who has arrived as we talk, laughs as well. I simply feel faint, recalling the moment of the strike.

“Come,” Father tells them. My wife and I have just finished brewing beer. It is cool from resting in a jar in the river. Join us and we will sample it.”

Later, while the fathers are engrossed in conversation, I slip away. My leg throbs, and there is still the otherworldly feeling that the venom had brought to my mind. I sit on a flat stone and watch as women wash clothes in the river. Soon Ibiaw approaches and sits beside me. He rubs a red rash on his leg.

I tell him, “The poison still affects me, and sounds seem too loud. Here it is quiet except for…,” I wave at the women standing knee-deep in the shallows, “…the swish of cloth.”

“Yes, it is peaceful here. My family lives near the palace of the pharaoh, and the air is always filled with sound. And smells,” he adds, pinching his nose.

“How did you and your father come to our village?” I ask.

“He is an architect and designs the canals that channel the water.”

“And you came to learn the profession from him?”

“Perhaps,” Ibiaw comments. “Or perhaps I will design great pyramids to house the pharaohs and their consorts in their afterlife.”

“Ah, that would be more interesting than becoming a brewer.”

Ibiaw looks out at the women who are now wringing out the clothes and placing them in a basket. There is a thoughtful look on his face, and I sense he is not actually seeing them.

“Can you write and count?” he asks, turning to face me.

“Yes, they are skills a brewmaster must learn. Why do you ask?”

“Father and I need someone to help us. You are just a boy now, but in a few years, your skills could be useful.”

“Yes,” I tell him, although I am not sure how I could be useful. On the way back to our fathers, I pull myself taller, hoping this will speed me on the way to manhood.

4

I am a man now. My new wife and I make our preparations for travel to the city of the pharaoh where Ibiaw has already made a home with his wife and child.

The last eight years, since the time of the serpent, have flown by like a hunting falcon arrowing after its prey. Promises I believed as a boy, such as the one Ibiaw made about apprenticing me to assist him, but in the space between then and their next visit to our village, I had come to believe the promise was only the vague rambling of youth, easily forgotten. Ibiaw, however, insists the proposal is carved into our hearts, solid as symbols carved in stone.

“See here,” Ibiaw tells me on their first trip back. He points to the dark discoloration on his calf. “The poison of your cobra sprayed my leg.” He strokes the skin.

“I remember seeing a rash that day as we sat beside the water. It was strange, that serpent,” I tell him.

Ibiaw nods once in acknowledgment.

“The beast wore a hood in the sacred color of the Pharaoh,” I go on.

“Yes, strange. The venom caused a rash that became worse in the night after we left, and it woke me from a strange vision.”

“A vision?” I ask.

“Yes, but…” he frowns, “the memory of strangeness remained when I woke, but details of the dream were lost in the day.”

My friend’s eyes are focused on the horizon, but what he sees are not the rocky hills. I am not sure why, but I do not tell him that I, too, had a vision as I swam between the living and the underworld.

Ibiaw’s gaze returns to me, and he smiles. “I have not forgotten, my friend, that we are bonded by the fang. You the bitten, I the one who saved the boy.”

“I have not forgotten either,” I say, laughing. The idea of traveling beyond the village of my birth is never far from my mind as I gather the barley for my mother and sisters to grind into a mash for beer. In the years between then and now, my mother has given birth to a son and daughter and buried another infant under the dry sand.

At some point, my father must have talked to Ibiaw’s father about apprenticing me to him because he tells me after one of their visits, “My son, there are more than enough hands here to brew beer. When it is time, go. The gods have set your destiny on a different path, and you must follow it.”

My parents had betrothed me when I came of age. My wife’s name is Chara, which means happiness. The name is fitting; she has long dark hair in a thick braid down her back and her spirit is gay, no matter the chore. Her scent is that of the sun and the sea when I come to her in the night.

Her family brews the thick beer as my own family does. Her mother, a disagreeable woman, warns Chara that I will bring her unhappiness and misery for taking her away from our village, but Chara and I have talked long about it, and she is as eager as I am.

We gather up our few household goods and the supplies Chara will need for making beer: honey, dried herbs, grinding stones, pots, and bread starter. We load our possessions onto one of the supply boats that sail up and down the river. Our families gather to send us off; my family stoic, Chara’s mother weeping her unhappiness. It is not so far, a long day’s journey on the water, but she warns we will never return. With a flap of unspooling sails and a push from the shore, we are underway.

“Look, a crocodile,” Chara exclaims as we sail past the reeds that grow along the bank.

I watch her occasionally place her hand on her belly as we travel and wonder if she will soon have news about our family. When she lifts her eyes to me, I smile and put an arm around her waist. Again, I give thanks to the gods that my parents selected a bride who both lifts my heart and is brave enough to join me in this new life.

Finally, we arrive at the city where Ibiaw and his family live. We gaze in wonder at the palace of the pharaoh. A tall wall surrounds it, as the gods and their family live apart from the citizens, but their presence is absolute. It is, of course, not the royal family but the ruling class, tasked by the pharaoh, that governs the people. The current leader is the one who has charged Ibiaw and his family with the construction of the canals that route water in the dry seasons. Ibiaw and his father also design the homes and buildings of the upper and ruling classes. As we walk, I wonder what delights hide behind the walls of the royal compound.

“Ah, my friend arrives,” exclaims Ibiaw when we finally make our way to his home. The evening has turned by the time we find it, the sun escaping to its home and the moon rising. We are both hungry and exhausted.

“We have prepared a meal. Please join us,” Ibiaw says.

He calls a servant to take away our possessions and bring cloths and a jar of cool water. We gladly wash the journey from our faces and hands and join Ibiaw and his wife, Eboni.

Eboni is from the south, lovely with dark skin and tight curls that she wears atop her head. We dine on fish seasoned with leeks, lentils, and dates. Chara takes a sip of her beer and nods her approval. It is cool and sweet with added honey and welcome after a hot day on the water.

Later, we are shown the sleeping alcove where our provisions await. We push the sleeping mats together so that we can sleep close. Chara falls into sleep quickly; at least I think she does. It takes me longer, replaying the day and all the strange new sights of the city. Just before sleep takes me, Chara stirs.

“Audax, my husband,” she whispers. I turn to face her. “I believe I am with child.”

Joy fills my heart although I have guessed this might be true. “A son,” I say in awe.

“A daughter,” she predicts, and I can hear the tease in her voice.

Our lives soon take on their rhythms. We move into an abandoned hut, and I repair a wall with bricks made of mud and straw. Chara assists Eboni in the making of beer: grinding the barley to make bread and then crumbling the bread and adding herbs, honey, and yeast to ferment the mash. She is now large with child and tires easily. Her time is near, and we ready a place in our home for the infant.

I watch my wife and her new friend move in tandem as they gossip over their tasks and am happy they have become friends.

It is hard but exciting, this new work with my friend and his old father. My mind, so used to the duties of my old life, strain to learn the math used to lay out the grid of waterways. This, of course, is a seasonal task for after the rains fill the river and it overflows the banks. Still, I learn quickly and soon can tally the progress of the work.

I record illustrations and measurements of the canals, the names of the villagers who oversee the work, and the rate of water flow on a scroll of papyrus. As we travel up and down the big river to the different communities, I realize how different is each village’s culture and citizens. Here, they fish, there they raise sheep and goats, in another place I observe men and women toiling in the fields.

5

Chara’s time comes as the season of rains begins and the moon is fat. “Audax,” she says nudging me in the night. “Go with speed and get the old woman, the one who delivers women of their babies.” She moans softly and clutches her belly.

Quickly, I pull on my tunic and scurry through the wet maze of lanes to the house where the midwife lives. I rap beside the gate, “Come quick,” I shout, “my wife births a child.”

“Wait,” a rough voice answers and I hear grumbling too soft to distinguish the words. Finally, she exits into the dim light of the moon through the clouds. The midwife is stooped and her mouth sunken with the loss of teeth. Slowly, slowly she shuffles toward me. I practically dance with the need to return to my wife.

“This is your firstborn?” she croaks.

“Yes,” I say and point down the lane toward my home. It has begun to rain again, but still, that does not hurry the old woman.

Instead of following me, as I expect, she weaves in the opposite direction.

“This way,” I instruct her, but she pays me no mind. Chara and Eboni were the ones who arranged this matter and I wish they were here to make the woman listen.

“Awake,” she shouts into the courtyard of a neighboring house. “Another comes.”

This is good, I believe. I am not confident in the skill of this woman.

“And bring the oil,” she commands, again into the doorway.

“Coming,” another woman tells her and leaves the dark of her home.

At least this one appears healthier with a back still straight. She carries a jug, holding it up so the old woman can see.

We return, slowly, slowly. I take quick steps and then turn to watch as the women, the young supporting the old, coming behind me.

“His first?” asks the younger.

“First,” confirms the older.

“The first comes slow,” the younger tells me. “Not until the new day arrives, most likely.”

I grit my teeth. It is still dark, the moon behind the thinning clouds just leaving the zenith. Chara is alone. What if something happens? Unable to bear their slow pace any longer, I dart down a lane to Ibiaw’s house.

“Ibiaw, Eboni,” I hiss into their courtyard. “It is Chara’s time.”

I hear movement inside, but I am already rushing back to the two women, only a few paces further from where I had left them.

At last, we arrive. From inside I hear Chara praying to the god Bes. There is a likeness of the god in our home, a bearded and misshapen dwarf with big ears and bowed legs. There is a pause in the prayer, and she groans.

“Ah, perhaps before the sun arrives,” the young woman announces as they enter.

In fact, the sky is just lightening when Chara, squatting over the birthing bricks—with the younger midwife holding my wife on one side, Eboni supporting the other and the old woman kneeling before her spread legs—gives a final grunt and a slippery infant slides into the midwife’s waiting hands. There is a gush of liquid, and I am suddenly weak.

“Sit,” commands Eboni as I wobble left, then right.

I sink to the floor, but my eyes never leave the infant as the old woman wipes his body and face. I see arms flail and then a wail.

“My son,” I say breathlessly.

“Hah, a daughter,” they say in unison.

I shift my gaze from the infant to my wife, as Eboni and the other woman help her down to the mat. Chara’s face is flushed but her eyes glow.

“A daughter,” she tells me and smiles.

I start to go to her, but the women brush me aside as they deliver—another baby? No, it is only a sack such as a ewe passes. The old woman ties a cloth around the cord that once connected mother and child and quickly pulls a small dagger from her robe to sever the connection.

Now is the time of Chara’s confinement, and they usher me from my home to find other accommodations until the end of the two-week period of purification. My last look as they all but shove me out the door is of Chara, naked babe at her breast and the younger midwife rubbing foul-smelling oil on her back to encourage the milk.

6

We name our daughter Masika, a child born of the rain. She has now lived for three seasons of the rain and today Masika is accompanying me as we walk to visit Ibiaw. He has sent a message through one of the village children who carry such words that he has news to share with me.

“Audax, my friend. Please come and sit with me in the courtyard where the sun will warm us.” He turns to Masika, standing close by my thigh. “Masika, you are as beautiful as your mother. Thank the gods, you did not receive your father’s nose,” He laughs when Masika glances up at me and squeezes her own little nose.

“And how goes your wife?” he continues.

Chara has birthed another child, a son, who when it is time for the naming ceremony, we will call Jabari, one who is brave. This child was born at the time of harvest and still suckles at his mother’s breast.

“My wife and son are well. She sends her greetings.”

Eboni, who has brought cups of beer and dates stuffed with goat cheese, sits down beside her husband. Like ducklings, their two sons follow their mother into the courtyard and sit cross-legged beside their father.

We gossip for a time about the harvest—one of the best they say—and rumors about the new stone baths the pharaoh plans to add to the palace compound. As we talk, I can see Ibiaw is more animated than usual and lights dance in his eyes.

“So, you have news to share?” I ask. “You are like a bee watching the honey overflow the comb.”

“Yes, news. As you know, Father has not been well.”

“That is what you have told me,” I say and send a silent prayer to the gods. “I pray his health improves.”

“Thank you. His spirit is strong, and he tells me he is not yet ready to travel to the underworld. But…” He shrugs one shoulder and continues.

“Father has been tasked by the pharaoh himself to build the new baths. He has already designed it and arranged for stones to be brought here. With his confinement, I am going forth with the plans. Except,” he holds up one finger and I see the light has returned to his eyes. “I wish to amend the plans as such.”

Ibiaw unrolls a papyrus and sets stones on the corners to keep it flat to the ground. The baths have high domed ceilings, one space devoted to the water itself, and another to an area where curved lounges will sit. Massive columns hold up the roof and I can see in the drawing they have been painted with scenes of life in the kingdom. Over the middle of the water, the bath is open to the sky, and Ibiaw has drawn tall urns with flames that will light the space at night. I have never seen anything so wondrous. I tell him as much.

“I have never seen anything like this. It will truly be a gift fit for a pharaoh.”

“Yes,” he comments. “Father is impressed with the changes. I meet with the royal court when the sun rises tomorrow.”

“The royal court?” I exclaim. The pharaoh and his wife live apart from villagers who live outside the walls. I have never seen them since we arrived although I have heard of their hunts and have seen the majestic boats, they used to travel the river.

“Yes,” Ibiaw says again.

Masika becomes restless beside me. She has played with Ibiaw’s sons many times, and I can see they are eager to explore.

“Come,” Eboni says and motions the children to follow her.

I have worked beside Ibiaw since Chara and I arrived in the city, arranging for the workers and supplies and tallying the day’s activities and costs. With this change, I wonder if my service will continue or he will have one of the officials assist him. I start to ask just that when he speaks.

“You, my friend Audax, have been a help, and I respect our friendship.”

I nod, unsure where the conversation will go.

“I will need such a trusted assistant in this new adventure.”

My heart lifts.

“I see you smile. Does that mean you will continue to assist and keep my records?” he asks.

“I will,” I agree.

“Good, then we will meet before tomorrow’s sun and make our way to the palace of the pharaoh.”

The next day we start out as the sun begins to throw a welcome to the new day. The palace walls, covered with white clay that captures the rose and yellow of dawn, awe me. The high walls, of course, are always a presence but this day—with anticipation of a look inside rarely viewed—they seem to glow with promise.

At the dinner meal the evening before, I had told Chara about Ibiaw’s plans and the next morning’s visit. She clapped her hands excitedly. “Tell me everything about the inside,” she ordered when I told her we would be entering the compound. “I hear the walls are adorned with the most brilliant scenes of royal life and there are striped tiger skins to warm the cold nights. Everywhere there are mosaics and bright rooms.”

I clasp her to me, mostly to stop the talking. I fear that too much of this will anger the gods and they will bar our entrance.

“I will tell you,” I whisper into hair mussed by the day, “but say nothing more for now.”

The inside of the pharaoh’s compound leaves me with mouth agape and without words. Ibiaw, too, for once cannot convince words to pass his teeth. A servant leads us through a long hall lined with statutes and across mosaic floors in intricate designs. We travel along walkways and through courtyards, some with plants and one with a fountain that cools the air. Still we walk. Finally, we reach heavy doors guarded by stone creatures with the faces of men but with the bodies of beasts.

We enter and take our place near a group of men dressed in richly decorated clothing. On a raised dais at the end of the great room sit the thrones of the pharaoh and his great royal wife. Servants attending to them make sure they bow low as they serve food and drink and stir the warm air with fans. Beside the dais are guards who stand stoic and watchful. When it is our turn, we are motioned forward, and we kneel to honor the living gods.

I am glad the presentation takes time, and my forehead must touch the floor in the bow, because it gives me time to gather my thoughts and veil my surprise. The paintings of the royal family that adorn state buildings reveal them as majestic: tall with supple limbs and unblemished skin. I cannot reconcile these images with the pharaoh and his wife sitting on their elaborate thrones.

Both have pale skin, not surprising since husband and wife are also brother and sister. He is soft and his belly protrudes over the top of his kilt. He leans to one side as if his headdress is heavy, but to me, it appears his back is crooked. His wife, the queen, is not as fat but one eye wanders differently than the other as if it seeks something in the shadows. The eye that does focus on Ibiaw as he explains the plans, however, is shrewd and she moves her gaze between her husband and a tall dark man with curly hair like Eboni who rests on a low chair beside them.

“The son of my mother’s sister,” the pharaoh explains of the curly-haired man. He does not much resemble his cousins and I wonder if this young man was a product of marriage or by one of the aunt’s consorts.