Chapter 21: Hope Under Threat
Maeta pushed her shoulder-length black hair away from her face, lifted her hands in veneration, and silently gave thanks to Isis for the knowledge she'd granted.
Horus. It had been six years of despair and futility before his birth, five years since. For four years, the secret of his existence had been held among the priestesses. Finally, the revelation was conveyed to a few carefully chosen leaders. For a brief moment, hope had blossomed. During the year that followed, suffering and sorrow, bloodshed and fear had made hope tenuous.
But now the Son of Isis and Osiris was coming to them.
Maeta smoothed her white linen gown, wrapped her pale blue cloak tightly over her shoulders against the night's chill, and slid back the course linen flap of her bleached leather tent.
Her guard stood just outside. He turned to her, the misty moonlight bringing a sheen to his black skin, a glitter to the knife he held almost hidden between the folds of his purple tunic.
How slight and pale she seemed beside him. Thirteen years ago, two years before Osiris' murder, when Saien had come to offer his protection, she'd wondered how anyone could suppose a high priestess might require a guard. She'd even felt, in a small hollow somewhere within her, a sense of offense. With a fleeting smile, she remembered her disdain for his surprise when she overpowered him during their first meeting, her anger when he wouldn't leave.
Yet, in the calamity following the shock of the murder, she came to find his constant presence reassuring, and diligently, Saien had furthered his skills. He'd become a high guard even a king would respect. Even so, she kept her weapons close at hand.
Had she grown so full of fear? It didn't matter. Now she had only her duty. Ensuring her brow was smooth, voice calm, she said, "Saien, it's time."
"Then I will take you." Saien bowed and moved soundlessly forward.
Though Maeta's feet knew the trail, tonight she would follow. So often, she'd seen this night in her dreams, yet in the reality of its unfolding, she felt still asleep.
In keeping with her requirements, Saien's posture and well-controlled movements revealed nothing of his thoughts or emotions. His strides, as always, were evenly paced. But there seemed a tension, barely discernible, in his shoulders' muscles. Had he guessed the importance of her mission?
Though Maeta had come, over time, to confide in him, she still held secrets, the hidden ways and thoughts of a high priestess. Many times she'd wished she could share with him her fears and longings. She couldn't afford the luxury of releasing her reserve.
Saien scanned, quickly searching the faces and hands of those they passed.
During Isis' and Osiris' reign, Maeta had been received with joy in each village she entered. There were no processionals now, only furtive journeys between hidden encampments. There were no shouts of welcome, only whispers among swaying reeds and within heavily-guarded tents.
Maeta shielded her eyes from the smoke of the low fires and the respectful yet curious gazes of those still awake. Her message was not for them. Not yet. Too many questions remained. Did she possess the strength and wisdom required to discover the answers?
They neared the mud-brick hut fashioned in hope of the young god's arrival, and Maeta paused, noting the hut's graceful lines, its seamless finish. The roof's tight thatching, carefully corded, laid by the warriors, and the elegant, arching designs traced by the healers over the hut's stamped and brushed dirt floor, visible through the open doorway, spoke eloquently of the people's deep longing for Horus, as well as their desire to honor him.
She angled for a better view of the hut's interior. Along its upper walls were polished rocks, the precision and intricacy of their layout, symbols hidden within the designs, indicating the sacred stones had been placed by priestesses. Would these stones, imbued with priestesses' magic and healers' blessings, afford Horus protection?
How much protection would he require? She lifted her gaze to the multitude of stars, searching for pattern, but their twinkling was dimmed by the mist.
Mist, the sign of Horus' coming to them.
Maeta's breath caught. Would she and the people, if successful, be dethroning one savage god to replace him with another? Could Isis, in her suffering, be blinded by a mother's love? Did Isis know with certainty her son's ascension to the throne would be worth the horrors of the war to come? Lacing her fingers to halt their trembling, she stared at Saien's footprints, lightly laid across the tamped but untrodden trail.
The ground was strangely smooth, with no pebbles to catch underfoot, no mounds of vegetation. Maeta pursed her lips. They were walking the path created for the boy god, the king coming to lead them. Legs aching from her journey, she gave thanks for the ease of this pathway. The ease.... Oh, Isis, Isis, how had it come to this?
Yearning to sink to her knees and weep for what had been lost, the love and beauty crushed by the brutality of Seht's rule, Maeta lifted her chin. Seht wanted to instill terror and despair. She would not succumb. She allowed herself to glance across the encampment, finding a measure of comfort in the number and variety of people who'd chosen to gather. Soon, with Horus' coming to them, more people would join, would depart the shadows and make their stands.
What if Horus possessed none of the cunning and might required to defeat Seht? What if he possessed none of the compassion and wisdom required to rule?
A tremor moved through Maeta's shoulders. Was she powerful enough to protect her people from a false king?
Wind touched her cheek, and she opened her hands to the cool, moist breeze. Horus was Son of Isis and Osiris. He must be the people's promised leader. Still, if he wasn't, the people's only chance of survival was to flee—and few could escape the murderous god who'd stolen Osiris' throne. Worry and sorrow overtaking her, she stumbled.
Saien caught her arm. Releasing her, he bowed.
Responsive and respectful. Yes, she was grateful for his steadfast companionship. Perhaps battle wouldn't deprive her of this friend. So many had died.
Recalling those she'd lost, some whose faces she in her mind's eye saw still as clearly as if they stood before her, others whose features had become obscured by memory's inexorable dimming, she experienced again the familiar ache, like sickness, radiating from her breastbone, spreading through her shoulders.
If she permitted herself, could she express her grief? Did any tears remain unspent? A falcon's shrill cry reverberated through her. She would leave it to the birds and the stars to lament. She could not.
Its cloth overlay's multicolored stripes made faint by the mist, diluting the moonlight, the tanned leather of the chieftain's tent rustled, directing Maeta's focus.
In the years before Seht's slaughters, she had smiled whenever she saw this tent, for she both respected and liked this chieftain, husband of her childhood neighbor, her most cherished friend, her closet ally.
Maeta lowered her shoulders. This was no time for fond reminisces. This night, she came not to celebrate a reunion but to deliver a message.
The chieftain's many guards sat in position, clustered around the tent's perimeter. The two men sitting closest to the tent stood, muscles tight, jaws clenched.
So this was now the reception of even a high priestess. Submerging her sadness, Maeta sharpened her gaze and inwardly prepared herself for the conflict she soon must circumvent.
The cloud that seemed to split the moon shifted.
Recognizing the symbols Maeta had traced over her throat and the backs of her hands, her concession to allow those she encountered here to identify her, the two warriors standing in silent confrontation started. The nearest said, "High Priestess. Please forgive the momentary misunderstanding."
The warriors around him hopped up and bowed.
Discreetly, Maeta released a breath.
Still, even as they bowed, the two warriors beside the tent's flap didn't avert their gazes. Nor did they allow their hands to slip from their weapons.
Yes, this is what it had come to—mistrust of all strangers, even a High Priestess of Isis.
The warrior who'd spoken angled his head toward the tent's flap and called, "Commander."
A tall, dark-haired man wearing a necklace of carnelian emerged from inside the tent. He glanced at Saien before meeting Maeta's stare.
Maeta had seen eyes like his before, the hard, appraising eyes of a warrior who'd lived through years of battles and betrayals, who understood the dangers faced by those who stood opposed to Seht, had seen firsthand the agonies Seht's followers inflicted. The eyes of a warrior who offered respect to all but unconditional trust to none who would approach those he'd pledged to protect.
It was a gaze she saw now often, even among those of the same village. She hadn't expected this warrior to direct it at her. She swallowed the ache that swelled in her throat.
Keen, hazel eyes guarded, stare locked to hers, he took a step to the side, blocking the tent's entrance. "With respect, High Priestess, it's an unusual time for a visit."
Carefully phrased and his voice low, his words meant for her ears alone. Another night, Maeta might have offered a few words of cordiality. Not this night. She directed quietly, "If they are asleep, wake them. It cannot wait."
"It's alright, Korris. Let her pass," a man called from within the tent.
Korris held a moment more and moved to the side.
Maeta stepped forward and bent, more stiffly than she wished, to clear the flap Korris held open.
Korris swiveled hard, blocking Saien from following.
Saien slid his hand toward his sheath.
"No," Maeta told her protector softly. "Wait here."
Frowning, Saien clenched his jaw. He lowered to the dirt at the tent's edge.
Korris paced backward into the tent, let the flap fall, and angled to keep watch on both the entrance and the one he'd been ordered to admit.
Did Korris, the warrior who'd once been her lover, who'd once asked the honor of being her husband, now question her loyalty to her queen, or did he question what Isis might require of her? The answer would have to wait.
Holding her hands open behind her, Maeta slowly walked past the tent's owners' bundles of clothes, few baskets of treasured possessions, and reed platters sparsely filled with bread and fruit toward the middle of the tent and the man and woman sitting together on woven reed and linen mats. Did this chieftain and priestess hold the fortitude their being in the encampment would suggest?
The glow of their low fire accentuated the white hairs among the grayish black of Tatuuf's head and chin, sharpened the lines drawn over Petraylia's oval face.
"Maeta? What's happened?" Petraylia asked and leaned forward, her pale lavender gown shifting across her thin shoulders, the tent's shadows casting a pall over her light grey eyes.
Tatuuf gave Maeta a swift, evaluative look. Jaw tight, he motioned her to sit. "You're always welcome in our tent, old friend. You're not here for pleasantries or remembrances now, though, I think. You're here on matters of duty?"
Petraylia shivered.
Concern in his eyes, Tatuuf took his wife's hand in his.
For a moment, in the presence of their love, Maeta longed to release to the joys of camaraderie. She lowered onto the mat facing them and folded her hands together in her lap. "My message cannot wait."
Tatuuf pulled back his shoulders, taking on a chieftain's stance, and nodded. "Then you must tell us."
Maeta inclined her head toward Korris.
"He has my trust," Tatuuf assured.
"The message I bring concerns a matter for your and Petraylia's consideration only."
Tatuuf tapped his chin. "I see." He turned to his guard and said, "I'll call to you when we've finished."
Expression tight, Korris replied, "As you wish, Chieftain." He gave Maeta a slight, stiff bow and withdrew.
The ache returned to Maeta's throat. She gave a restrained cough and then uttered the words she'd so long hoped and feared to speak aloud, "I've had a dream. When I woke from it, Isis spoke to me. Horus is coming."
Tatuuf leaned back and bowed his head. "At last. And yet," he added, lifting his gaze to search Maeta's eyes, his brows drawing together, "so soon?"
Petraylia spread her delicate fingers over her cheeks. "Then it's true."
Was it possible she'd sensed it? Maeta studied her. "You already knew?"
"I wasn't sure. I felt something, beautiful, difficult to define, but there's so much misery. Its like looking at the sky in the midst of a torrential, bitterly cold rainfall and trying to find the stars."
"Yes," Maeta whispered.
Petraylia's countenance brightened. "There was something else. I felt, through Flame, something was happening, something wonderful, and of love beyond comprehension. In that moment, though there's still so much pain and fear, I felt hope, Maeta."
Confused, Maeta gave a small smile and returned her gaze to Tatuuf.
"Eleven years of turmoil and death," Tatuuf said slowly. "Now the Son of Isis and Osiris comes to us, and we pin our hopes to him, for we must." His eyes became steely. "High Priestess, why does he venture from hiding? Is he in danger? Will he bring Seht on his heels?"
"That is not known," Maeta answered simply.
"Then I ask this." Absently, Tatuuf readjusted the layers of stones around his wrists. "Does he know anything of fighting? If not, does he at least know how to hide?"
Maeta stared into the fire. Could a child be prepared for the privation of battle? Hardened warriors, disciplined healers, and even highly-trained priestesses had faltered. Could a five year old hide from Seht's warriors, fierce, skilled, and spurred by the knowledge any failure would mean not only their deaths but the deaths of their families, as well? Seht had killed Osiris, with a viciousness that still sent ripples of shock, and Osiris had been in his prime.
Maeta replied, "Neither Horus' level of awareness nor his abilities are known. Though I would surmise from his coming to us at such an age he must learn quickly. Are your warriors skilled at training?"
Tatuuf's brows flashed. "Train a god?" he murmured then stroked his chin. "Several of my warriors, yes, are adept instructors. Whether they could teach Horus what he'll need to know to defeat Seht is a different matter. Much more will depend on how many of his parents' abilities Horus inherited. In any case, he's the only one with the potential to succeed. If we must protect him while he learns, so be it."
Hands clasped over her knees, Petraylia tilted her head. "Surely he wouldn't come to us if it weren't time?"
"Let us pray that's the case," Tatuuf replied. "He has had a priestess who's nearly a high priestess and a Fifth Order Warrior nearly a Sixth not only as governess and protector but as guides, if I have my facts correct. But, as it stands, we know nothing of his skills or his temperament, if he's able at all to think matters through or if he acts only on reckless whim. Though, surely, with a Priestess of Isis as his governess, he's learned something of reasoning. As much as a child's able. High Priestess?"
"Indeed, he should have learned the rudiments."
"Right. So now the question is how much does he understand and value her counsel. If he's his mother's son, quite a lot, or will grow to, would be my guess. Petraylia?"
"I sense he holds his governess in high esteem," Petraylia answered. "As he does his protector."
"You mean he at least has the wits to follow their instructions. Perhaps that will help us." Tatuuf's expression clouded, and he pressed his hands to the ground. "So young. Even for a god, what can a boy of five truly understand?"
"Unless he receives visions," Petraylia said, gazing at the earthen bowl, filled with polished stones, beside her. "Perhaps he does, and that's why he's coming to us so soon. Perhaps he's seen and understood what's happening here." She fingered the stones. "Yes, it's what I sense."
Tatuuf gazed, pensive, at his hands. "Well, that would be in our favor, certainly. If he values human life, h
e might strive to become a true king. He might, when old enough, fight not only to dethrone Seht but to restore the order his parents created. Still, how long can humans exert influence over a god? His focus may fix on vengeance. If it does, what of the people? The war's toll in human life would become meaningless to him."
Maeta smoothed her gown. "If he carries within him the desire for vengeance, it may well spark. If it does, we must restrain him until he's physically able to exact it."
"Restrain a god?" Tatuuf rubbed his brow. Shaking his head, he lowered his hand. "What you suggest isn't simple."
"No. Neither is it respectful, nor is much of this discussion. However, Isis charged us with protecting the people, and that directive is not changed because we're now considering how to address matters concerning her son. For the people's sake, it may fall to us to hold Horus in check."
"You have methods to accomplish this?"
Maeta's smile was somber. "Were not I and your wife, along with a select few, taught by Isis herself?"
"I am well aware of that. I ask—"
"Silence." Maeta allowed her gaze to cool. "You would question the powers Isis' teachings bestowed?"
Petraylia turned sharply to Maeta. "Don't speak to him in that tone."
Tatuuf interjected, "It's alright, my dear. I didn't phrase it well. High Priestess. Maeta. You know I hold in highest respect the ways of the priestesses, as do all followers of Osiris. I meant only to ask by what means a god could be restrained by humans. Surely, if such means exist they could be applied to another god?"
Maeta frowned. "If they could be applied to Seht, wouldn't they have been? What you ask is foolishness. Seht's too powerful. Horus, on the other hand, is still young, and if it's necessary, he could be held in check for a time. The point of concern is what powers he holds within him. While it would be helpful if he shared his parents' beneficent views, all that's vital is that he have the abilities necessary to defeat Seht."
"All that's vital, you say?" Tatuuf frowned. "Desire for vengeance breeds cruelty." He shook his head hard. "Without assurance of Horus' character, we'd be better off telling the people to run and hide, not ask them to engage in a war to protect him and bring him to the throne. If he's to be no better than Seht, let the two of them battle it out and leave the people to their fates."
Petraylia stared, wide-eyed, at her husband.
"How can we ask the people to fight when we don't yet know what kind of god we ask them to fight for? When we don't yet know what kind of king he'll become?" Tatuuf took a breath and pushed his hands against his knees. "Forgive my frustration."
Petraylia touched Tatuuf's arm. "Isis would, in time, relieve Horus of his duties should he prove to be malevolent. Isn't that so, Maeta?"
Maeta kept her expression neutral. "That's so."
Watching Maeta closely, Tatuuf asked, "Are you certain? Could a mother see past her love and force her only son from position?" He added softly, "Could you?"
"My—" Maeta's voice cracked. How was she to endure such heartbreak? Lacing her fingers together, she pressed her lips. "Resup is dead. Along with what remained of my family." Bitterness rose within her.
How could Isis chose another to be Horus' governess? Was it the death of Nalia's husband in the first battle that had won her the position? No, Maeta's husband had died in that stand, as well. Was it Maeta's daughters? Surely they could have gone to the island, too. Hadn't Maeta done all Isis had asked? Hadn't she become all Isis had sought? Still, Isis had entrusted Nalia, and because of that decision Nalia's son lived and Maeta's son was dead.
As if she'd spoken the treacherous words, Maeta covered her mouth. She'd never questioned Isis' judgement, nor did she possess that right. No, Nalia was best suited to be Horus' governess, and she was best suited for the role Isis had given her on mainland. It was her grief that had impaired her understanding and acceptance. She spread her hand over her chest. "My children."
Petraylia drew a sharp breath. "Aniice? Taytahla? Halyia?"
"They were all in Kartuoh's village," Maeta forced herself to respond.
Expression pained, Tatuuf cast his gaze away. "The rumors were true."
"Yes," Maeta said. "It was a massacre. My son. My daughters. Kartuoh. His son, Harsiih. Many others. Baso. Luuteha. Neeso."
Petraylia's hands trembled. "Rena?"
She didn't know? Maeta closed her eyes. She answered quietly, "I'm sorry. I know how close you were."
Tatuuf encircled Petraylia in his arms, and she wept.
Rena. The young priestess Petraylia had loved almost as a daughter. Maeta's cherished and trusted second, who'd insisted on delivering the message of warning to Kartuoh and his people. The one who'd taken Maeta's place and paid with her life.
Had Seht hoped to ensnare Maeta, High Priestess, in Kartuoh's village? Was this the reason for his order? Had family and friends died because—no, the thought was too much to bear. Still, had there been more to her receiving word of the intended slaughter? If so, it would mean there was a betrayer among them. Should she confide this possibility?
Petraylia brushed her cheeks. "So many. Rena. Kartuoh. All that remained of your family. Oh, how I'd hoped, how I'd prayed those who remained of yours," she paused and took a shuddering breath, "could be spared."
Again Tatuuf wrapped his arm over his wife's shoulder, and Maeta knew her friends were thinking of their son, their only child, lost in the first battle, the struggle that had claimed the lives of husbands, fathers, brothers, sons, the lives of mothers, wives, sisters, daughters. So much suffering. So much sorrow. All wrought by the followers of an angry god who wanted to crown himself king.
Resolve filling her, Maeta lifted her chin. "In answer to your question, Chieftain, whether a mother could see past her love, I would do as I must to ensure the well-being of the people. Our queen would do no less. Now," she said and stiffened her back, "have you had word from your brother? If we could convince him and his son to join in protecting—"
Petraylia interrupted, "There's been no word."
Fist to his lips, Tatuuf again looked away.
"Have attempts been made?" Maeta asked, persisting.
Tatuuf slapped his hand against the ground. "Of course attempts have been made. Of course every way to reach him has been tried. You know the position he's in. It must be done delicately or else not only his death but the deaths—" staring at Maeta, he shut his mouth tight.
Maeta kept her gaze to Tatuuf's. "The deaths of his wife, son, and daughters." She wouldn't blink, wouldn't show her pain. "Yes, I understand."
Gaze lowered, Tatuuf nodded. "I'm sorry for your loss, Maeta." He touched her hand. "So very sorry."
"As I was, and continue to be, for yours and Petraylia's. As I am for the families of all who have fallen. That," Maeta said and paused, forcing back her anguish, "is not the matter at hand. We have little time, Chieftain. The people rely on us. We must formulate and finalize our plans."
Maeta repositioned, returning to the posture instructed by Isis, and continued, "Horus' caretakers will want to meet with us, and he may, too. They'll have questions to which they require answers, as might he.
"Even if he would be foolish enough to wander into an encampment without first ensuring the loyalties of those within, his caretakers would prevent it. His protector will insist on scouting the encampment before allowing either his mother or his charge to come near. His governess will follow custom and council him to meet first with us.
"So we can move now to the next point. How do we discover Horus' present skills, his latent powers, and his true nature during our meeting? This will be a simple enough matter for a high priestess trained by Isis herself and a warrior and leader, seasoned and clever, appointed Chieftain of Many Tribes."
Tatuuf tipped his head, acknowledging the compliment.
"Also, we have the skills of a gifted priestess and healer," Maeta said and smi
led at Petraylia, gazing unseeing into the bowl of stones. "I believe she'll soon have information to share."
Petraylia's eyes focused. "I'm sorry, Maeta. Were you speaking to me?"
"I was waiting for you to add your insight to the discussion."
"You and Tatuuf must meet him," Petraylia said.
Inwardly, Maeta sighed. No, Petraylia must be given time. Her energy would center. Maeta turned again to Tatuuf. "I suggest a second meeting, with a select group of warriors, priestesses, and healers accompanying us, before we address the people."
"I agree." Tatuuf tilted back his head and yawned.
Maeta realized the plan had given him assurance, and he was now feeling the lateness of the hour. Yes, she, too, needed rest.
The bright eagerness faded from Petraylia's expression.
Tatuuf leaned toward her. "My dear? What is it?"
Petraylia's voice, though soft, held an urgency, "What if Horus was captured and an impostor slipped into his place? Or what if Isis hid another child with a priestess and a warrior as a safeguard, and that child believes he's Horus?
"We don't know what events or enemies are surrounding Isis. Her messages have been infrequent. Would she be able to tell us if the one coming wasn't her son? Even if she could, would she dare to if doing so might increase the danger to Horus?"
Maeta sat back. Of course, these were possibilities. How had she not thought of them? Her lapse in reasoning was inexcusable. Tapping her fingers against her mat, she stared at the symbols traced over her hands. "You're right. We can't know for certain. Unless there's direct confirmation from Isis, we must take nothing for granted."
Tatuuf rubbed his forehead. "I hadn't thought. Those are dangers, and great ones at that." Beseechingly, he stared into Maeta's eyes.
Petraylia grasped Maeta's hand. "You must use what Isis has taught you. You must make the determination."
So much responsibility. Maeta's heart fluttered.
"Maeta," Petraylia said and paused, waiting for her to lift her gaze. "I believe in you. Isis appointed you to lead all her priestesses in her absence. Just as she has every confidence in you, so do I."
"As do I, High Priestess Maeta," Tatuuf added, his expression clearing, and he covered their hands with his. "As do I."
Glad of their friendship, Maeta allowed, for a moment, the feeling of reassurance. She gave their fingers a squeeze before slipping her hand away.
Dreamily, Petraylia fingered the bowl of carnelians, brown agates, and emeralds she'd again lifted to her lap.
A vision. Maeta asked slowly, quietly, "Petraylia, what do you see?" Patiently, she waited.
Finally, Petraylia lowered the bowl onto her mat. The shadows seemed to fade from her eyes, the lines over her face to smooth, and she smiled. "What we've held hope for will come to be."
Maeta subdued her surprise. She respected Petraylia's gifts, but she knew desire could affect interpretation. She needed reason, not wishfulness, the starkness of facts, not the fervor of faith. Still, had Petraylia, in her trance, grasped something Maeta had missed? Gently, she took her friend's hand and nodded. "Go on."
Petraylia whispered, "When Horus overcomes his fears, he'll amaze even the gods." Reverence shone in her eyes.
Tatuuf and Maeta gazed at each other in silence.
Maeta tensed. She must find the truth, quickly, before rumor, so dangerous, began. Alarmed by her burden, she abruptly stood. "Goodnight, Chieftain, Priestess."
Exiting the tent, she pushed her hands into her cloak's folds and, as if in preparation for the moment to come, closed her hand around the hilt of her copper dagger, drenched in Isis' magic.
If the one coming to them couldn't prove his identity, he and his two collaborators would die. Indeed, to protect the people, she would kill the impostor herself.
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