She fidgeted as one of her maids finished braiding her hair into a multitude of plaits, each of which ended with a gold or silver bell. The girl tugged at her hair and hissed at her to be still. Mnen’atet took a deep breath and forced her limbs to stay calm. She considered slapping the girl for her cheek, then decided against it. If she did that, her hair would be finished in poor grace, the end result hardly befitting her rank as a king’s daughter.
It was as the girl finished the last braid, that the first wail was heard.
Her mother, though at first Mnen’atet wasn’t sure it had been a woman at all. She had never heard her mother wail before. The cry came again, a heart-rending call, somewhere between a scream and the ululation of a death-song. Mnen’atet had never heard this particular cry either, whether in song or from the mourning women that occasionally passed in funeral processions in the branches below. It was her maid that divined the reason.
“Pharaoh!” she whispered and her voice was almost silent in shock.
“What about Pharaoh?” Mnen’atet snapped, thoroughly unnerved by the long ululating cries that now joined those of her mother. It was as though the whole forest was coming alive with sadness, and the beauty of the golden morning was lost in the songs of death that rose to greet it.
Before the maidservant could answer, footsteps were heard on the corridored pathway outside her rooms. The maid hurried to open the door and Mnen’atet rose, smoothing the translucent folds of her robes. The visitor did not pause or wait for Mnen’atet to invite her to enter. She swept past the maid and came to stand before the waiting princess.
Mnen’atet paled at the figures that confronted her, and then she found the will to kneel. Before her stood a priestess of Isis, goddess of sorcerers, and a priest of Horus, god of vengeance. They were accompanied by four Guardians of Anubis.
“There is no time for that,” the priestess snapped, catching Mnen’atet beneath the elbow and arresting her obeisance. “Your mother has called you forth. She carries the pharaoh’s son, the heir to the throne. She is forbidden to undertake the Paths of Vengeance the assassin’s blade demands. You will take her place.”
“I’ll what?” Mnen’atet quavered.
“You will take her place,” the priestess repeated. “Now, follow me. There is no time; the assassin’s trail grows cold.”
Mnen’atet winced, but whether it was at the priestess’s tone, her words, or her vice-like grip on Mnen’atet’s arm, the princess couldn’t tell. Instead, robbed of permission to protest, Mnen’atet followed, when the woman left the room. Behind her, the servant girl began to wail.
The priestess led her through the palace precinct, their passage attracting more attention than usual, the cheerful jingle of Mnen’atet’s hair bells sounding well and truly out of place. It clashed with the ululating wail that signalled pharaoh’s passing, the wail that had drawn people to the wide branches forming the pathways through the trees. Most had picked up the cry and wailed in the street, while others stood wailing at their household windows. As Mnen’atet and the priestess approached, the wailing would drop and the people would bow. Once they had passed, the wailing would begin anew behind them.
Seeing their obeisance, Mnen’atet felt a growing pool of dread form inside her. Soon they would call her ‘princess’ no longer. Soon she would don the red garb of an initiate avenger and begin her training… and after that she would wear the green and brown of a hunter. Pharaoh’s assassin would die by her hand, or at her behest… or he would die some other way and she would bear witness. Whatever the method, Pharaoh’s assassin would die. Isis had sworn it.
And when the hunt is over? she thought, What will I do then? One thing was clear, she could not return to being a princess. That path was closed to her forever. She thought of her sisters, and of her brother to come. Once she took part in the initiation ceremony, she would no longer be a part of the ruling family. She would cut all family ties until the hunt was over. When that time came, there would be opportunities she could take; the priestesses of Isis saw to that. What those opportunities might be, though, she could not tell. She only knew that they would be as someone other than a member of the ruling family. Her vocation of vengeance prevented that.
Shivering a little – and not with the morning chill, Mnen’atet followed in the priestess’s shadow. The fine garments covering her slender form, her ram-rod posture, her sapphire eyes, and her witch-black hair all marked her as being of pharaoh’s line. Whatever the ceremony, her physical form would not change.
They passed over one of the many arms of the Nile, walking over the interlocking arms of thaun trees. Mnen’atet found herself admiring the red-striped, apple-green of the thaun leaves as the dawnlight hit them, and wondered that she had not noticed it before. The palace was built on these living platforms, and she had never seen how beautiful they were.
On the other side of the river, the striated foliage of the thauns gave way to something darker. The morning light was scattered through a webbing of shroud leaves, and raleem needles reached up around her to form a broad railing along the edge of the branches. The raleem were poisonous, and the shroud trees parasitic. Mnen’atet felt as though she had entered a carefully tended garden – albeit a garden she would have thought more along the lines preferred by Anubis, than Isis, but, then, she’d never visited the temple of Isis’s vengeful aspect. Perhaps the two were connected.
“This way, child. Stop gendering, and, for the heaven’s sake, don’t touch the thorns!”
Realising that she had stopped, Mnen’atet gave a guilty start and hurried after the priestess. Where the red veins of the thaun trees had glowed with a vibrant life of their own, the red striations she was noticing in the raleem thorns were colored purple, blending almost perfectly with the blue-black bark on the raleem’s branches. Mnen’atet how a tree that carried the sun god’s name could be colored his opposite. She struggled to recall something of her lessons with the tree-carers, but failed’ she had always been somewhat inattentive in those lessons – unless, of course, their teachings involved how the forest plants were used to perfume her skin, or create her make-up.
She sighed, noticing how the shroud trees had been planted in terraces created out of the raleem’s very branches. Surely the tree-carers would never have agreed to allowing the parasite’s growth encouraged? Ahead of her, the priestess reached a solid platform where the branch on which they had been walking buttressed the tree’s trunk. Here, Mnen’atet caught her first glimpse of Isis’s tribute to Ra’s gift of magic. Growing between the raleem thorns that edged the platform, were the slender canes that usually grew in rafts on the Nile and its slower-flowing tributaries. Their gold-green stems bore blue striations, lending the raleem thorns a light against which to contrast. The reeds stretched down into the raleem bark so that it looked as though they grew out of the raleem itself.
“Pharaoh is dead, child. Now is not the time to wonder at Ra’s gift to us,” the priestess held out her hand. Puzzled, Mnen’atet took it. Why the woman would want physical contact now, was impossible to say. Her answer came as she placed her hand in the priestess’s palm. Energy vibrated between them, and then grew out of their clasp to surround them with an aura of power.
Mnen’atet gasped in surprise and held herself rigid as the priestess touched the door. She felt them dwindle, and vanish through the door. Small as a mote of light, sparkling green and gold, the pair of them zipped through the black trunk of the raleem and into a hallway so splendid that it dwarfed the enormity of moving by magic.
She felt them increasing in size as soon as the door’s wooden paneling was behind them, but her eyes were already taking in the splendor of her surroundings. Now she understood why the raleem was named for Ra; the interior of the tree shone as brightly as the sun, its golden wood shone with an interior brilliance for which Mnen’atet could not find a reason.
And it’s warm, she thought, as warm as the sun.
“This is no smiling matter!” the priestess snapped, her tone portraying impatience with the way Mnen’atet was standing and staring in wonder, a wordless smile on her face. In truth, she sympathized with the child; this was exactly she had responded to the tree. Perhaps there was a future for the princess after all. “Follow me,” she ordered, “and hurry! The ceremony only needs you.”
As they left the space, the Anubian Guards and priest of Horus appeared behind them. No words were spoken as they flanked Mnen’atet and the priestess and began a swift march towards a staircase that spiraled upwards through the interior of the tree’s outer shell. There was a sense of urgency between them now, a feeling that time was growing short and any further hesitation would lead to disaster.
Why it was so urgent for the princess to complete her initiation ceremony tonight, the priestess could not say; she only knew it was unusual for so much to be demanded from one just brought to the paths of vengeance. Of course, those chosen as their family’s avengers were often given over to the Isan temple years ahead of when they would be needed, such was the worth of divinations.
Why Pharaoh had resisted the simple sensibility of it, the priestess did not know. She sighed, well, yes, she did know; Pharaoh had known that to train one of his children as an avenger would be admit that his reign would be foreshortened, and such were the divinities’ protection of the ruler that no other could foresee a pharaoh’s future.
The stairwell ended in one large room close to the top of the tree. Here the raleem’s branches spread outwards as though raised to the heavens and the god for which it was named. Open to the dawn sky, the hollowed bowl formed by the meeting branches was lined with golden-robed priestesses, red-robed acolytes, and brown-and-green-garbed avengers. The black-and-gold tabards of the Guardians of Anubis gleamed where the sun hit them. The red-lined robes of the priest of Horus nestled among them created a splotch of shadow at the head of the stairs.
They halted here, the priest to watch from his vantage point above the bowl, and the guardians to seal the stairway. At the northern, southern and western points of the bowl stood three other shadowed splotches. Flashes of gold striping surrounded brief glimpses of red as the morning breeze ruffled the Horun priests’ robes.
Mnen’atet looked across the bowl and caught a glimpse of the jungle canopy that spread out around them. Dark-leafed raleem, mingled with the apple green of thaun trees, amidst a sea of multi-shaded dotted with purples and golds. The sight made her breath catch in the back of her throat, and she gasped. The reaction was instantaneous. The heads of those assembled turned as one and Mnen’atet found herself the subject of a hundred gazes.
At least, it felt like a hundred gazes. Mnen’atet couldn’t tell how many were assembled in the crown of the tree. For a heartbeat of time, all were still. Even the breeze that rustled the jungle canopy seemed to still. When the heads turned back towards the center of the bowl, the breeze resumed its endless dance.
A low hum rose from those assembled. The priestess took Mnen’atet’s hand in her own, and led her between the rows of waiting Isans to the base of the bowl. Here another priestess of Isis waited. She stood in Mnen’atet’s path and pointed at her.
“Are you Mnen’atet Asrankamun?”
Taken aback, the princess paused. The silence lengthened, and she caught the first flickerings of annoyance shadow the priestess’s face. Drawing on the ceremonies that had been a part of her life since she was old enough to walk, she replied: “I am she, High Priestess.”
The annoyance faded, and the high priestess continued: “You have been called, child, to the Paths of Vengeance. Your family name is forfeit. Your title is annulled. You are no longer a member of the royal household of Asrankamun, but you are its avenger. You are tasked with bringing vengeance upon the murderer of the Pharaoh Astaren Asrankamun, or ensuring that such vengeance is no longer required. The penalty for an assassin is death. The penalty for an avenger, is renewal. All that is past is vanished. The future is undecided until the task is complete. When the assassin of Pharaoh Astaren Asrankamun breathes no more, you will find new life. Will you fulfill the role to which you have been called?”
Thrusting aside the uncertainty that swirled into her mind, Mnen’atet raised her chin and forced her mouth to form the words, “I will fulfill the role the goddess decides.”
It was both agreement and challenge. It was not the reply the high priestess had expected. Mnen’atet saw her eyes widen in surprise, and then what might have been a sparkle of amusement. The woman turned to an apprentice avenger who had been standing behind her. Mnen’atet had failed to register the girl’s presence; she was standing in the priestess’s shadow. For that matter, she was standing in Mnen’atet’s shadow since the east-rising sun had cleared the treetops.
It could have been seen as a sign, thought the high priestess, that the sun should choose this moment to rise, for the girl was silhouetted full against it, and the filmy material of her robes looked as though they were on fire. For three heartbeats of the sun’s rising, the princess was surrounded by a halo of light. In all her years of serving the goddess of magic, the high priestess had not seen the like. It was as though Ra himself, placed his blessing on the child’s endeavors.
With this thought slowly firming in the back of her mind, the high priestess took the chalice from the apprentice avenger and raised it above her head. Turning back to face Mnen’atet, she said: “As you have spoken, so shall it be.” In her soul, she was sure she felt the goddess’s laughter. In her hands, the chalice warmed with more than the sunlight’s touch.
As the light around the princess faded, and the chalice felt more like a chalice once more, High Priestess Istet, lowered the chalice. “Drink,” she intoned. “Drink and find the will of Isis.”
Mnen’atet reached to steady the chalice against her lips. She drank. The one thought in her mind was to seek the goddess’s will, to drink as deeply as she could from the slightly bitter draft, to find the answers to questions she had not yet thought to ask. At first her tongue shrank from the taste, but there was another flavor that threaded its way through the first. Not honey, but just as sweet. Not the crystals formed when the sweet Latrusma sap dried. Not anything that she could identify, but pleasant and in some way as reassuring as hearing the goddess speak within her mind.
She continued to drink, concentrating on the flavor, wondering what form the answers would take. She did not notice when one Anubian Guard broke from each of the four groups and approached. She did not feel their hands on her shoulders, the support of their interlinked arms around her waist. She did not feel it when her hands fell away from the chalice, nor notice when her knees folded and her limp body was lifted and carried from the treetop bowl.
After her departure, the Isans raised their voices to the pristine skies above them, and gave praise to Ra, to Isis, to Horus and to Sechmet. Mnen’atet did not hear the anthem they raised as she was borne carefully down the eastward stairs. She had entered the realm of dream.
As the dawnlight faded from her eyes, Mnen’atet found herself standing in her father’s rooms. She knew they were his rooms; she had visited them often enough, usually when she had done something so unprincesslike that he was forced to pay attention to it. That had been some time ago, though, and he had warned her then that should she embarrass him again, then she would be confined to the women’s palace until he could find her a marriage. He hadn’t been joking, either, and Mnen’atet had been careful to keep the name of her family clear of any shame.
This, however, wasn’t that occasion. This was a time when the room was coated in darkness, but when the promise of dawn scented the air. This was the time Ra fought his nightly battle with Apep and made ready to re-enter the world. Mnen’atet shivered. This was the assassin’s time. She would have to take care.
She was in the antechamber, where she had often stood before her father, or played for him on the free-standing harp. Letting her eyes adjust to the dim light, Mnen’atet realized that she could see, even though the skies seen through the antechamber window were the color of obsidian. This was what enabled her to see the figure that slipped through the entrance and lightly crossed the antechamber floor.
Curious now, Mnen’atet followed it, noticing how her movements, even though they lacked the assassin’s grace, made no sound. Light as a shadow, but bearing the proportions of a warrior, the intruder led her deeper into her father’s quarters. The pale gold of the Sorian tree’s inner skin gleamed in reflected glow lights. The assassin was a dark wraith drifting between the walls.
Once or twice, he stopped and looked back. His dark eyes looked right through Mnen’atet, but he didn’t react to her presence. As far as he was concerned, she might not have been there at all. Reassurred that nothing disturbed his hunt, the man turned and trotted swiftly towards her father’s sleeping quarters. Three steps from the corridor bend that would take him to her father’s door, his form shuddered.
Mnen’atet held her breath. Surely the guards would feel the tingling wash of magic emanating from him… surely someone would raise the alarm. To her surprise, she could still see the man but, now, instead of being a moving shadow, he was as transparent as the mist that rose from the Nile. When he turned the corner, the guards did not see him; they died from a double-strike that killed them without a sound.
The assassin caught the first before he could fall, and guided the second to slump against the wall. Mnen’atet watched in horror as the guard slid lifelessly to the floor. Why? she thought. Why am I the only one? It seemed impossible that the guards’ families would be unaware of their loved ones’ demise. The magic shrouding the pharaoh’s household from divination, shrouded the futures of his guards as well. It was something to which the answer arrived as she pondered, and it came to her that she was called to avenge not only her father’s murder, but the murder of his guards as well.
The weight of it made her feel weak at the knees, but she forced her dream vision to clear, and followed the assassin through the door to her father’s chamber. Moonlight filtered through the thorned shroud that guarded her father’s window. It bathed the golden walls of his chamber in silver light, reflecting off the metallic threads that gilded the curtain surrounding his bed.
For a moment, Mnen’atet wondered which of his wives pharaoh had chosen to take to his chamber that night. Was it her mother? The pretty thing from the mountains? Or the sloe-eyed woman from across the river? She caught herself holding her breath, as the assassin lifted the curtain aside, and released it in a soft sigh of relief when she saw that pharaoh was alone.
The tradition of sending avengers after assassins had meant that the assassins would often kill anyone who slept with their targets. It reduced the pool from which avengers could be drawn. This was an improvement on the practice of a few years ago, where the assassins would kill entire households. That practice had been ended when priestesses of Isis and the priests of Horus had taken to sending temple avengers after them. Faced with the choice of a relatively untried family member or someone with skills honed by years of training, the assassins had slowly returned to focusing on their assigned prey.
The sudden flurry of movement from pharaoh’s bed surprised her almost as much as it surprised the assassin. Her father hadn’t been asleep when the assassin struck; he’d been waiting. She saw the gold flash of the ceremonial dagger that was with him at all times, caught the ruby reflections of the gem in its hilt. His blow would have been successful if he had been able to see the assassin.
As he couldn’t, his aim was off. The blade did draw blood, but Mnen’atet saw how it drew across the assassin’s thigh, instead of plunging into his chest. The pharaoh’s death followed swiftly after that.
