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  At last, the footsteps diminished. If they were going to run, this was their chance. Nandor’s fingers worked furiously to pry open a door, shaped and carved into the goddess’s posterior with such artistry that it was virtually invisible. When the opening revealed itself, he pushed her inside.

  There was nothing but blackness as she followed Nandor’s labored breathing. With each downward step, the air became increasingly stale; at the bottom, she was almost overcome by the putrid odors of decaying flesh and herbs. The hall of purification must be close. Khara felt as though she were being buried alive, and her lip began to quiver.

  “Where are you?” she whispered, sounding small and childlike.

  “Here.”

  Something in Nandor’s voice was not right. A quick crackling noise, followed by the sound of a flint hitting its mark, produced a small orange ember which was quickly fed to an oiled torch. Soon there was a small glow. In the soft light, Nandor took her by the shoulders, turning her in a slow circle to examine her for injuries. He still breathed heavily.

  “You’re hurt!” Khara cried softly.

  He did not answer, but pulled the pouch, the contents of which he had flung in Menefra’s face, away from his body. Blood began to trickle down his legs from three punctures just below his heart.

  “Come,” Nandor urged as he turned east toward a small passageway.

  “No, wait!” Loosening her white linen sash, Khara knotted it tightly around his middle.

  He moved her hand away. “There is no time…”

  “Not another step,” she commanded, tightening the knot and regarding him grimly. “What will happen now?”

  “She will be coming. For you.”

  “I meant, what will happen now—now that father is…” Her voice broke. “Why, Nandor?” Her shoulders began to shake and tears ran down her face.

  He turned and was moving again. All she saw was his giant shadow in the growing distance. She hurried close behind, lest he disappear and leave her to the darkness.

  The guards had reached her sister. Suddenly Khara could hear Menefra, sense her sister’s whirling emotions as she wove her web of lies.

  “My father, is he alive?” Menefra asked, voice shaking. She was insulted that no one had spoken to her or acknowledged her in any way. Commander Zener, whose gaze had been elsewhere, focused sharp eyes on her and did not speak. Instead, he stared at the knife resting on the floor not far from her right hand.

  “Your father is beyond help, princess,” Zener reported as his eyes remained on the bloody knife.

  “I pulled it, this…from him.” Menefra stammered in answer to the commander’s questioning stare.

  “Who did this?” Zener asked. “Where is Princess Khara?”

  As always, their concern was for Khara, and it made her want to scream. If thoughts could be daggers, they would all be dead. Dead, dead, dead!

  “It was Nandor,” she whispered, hanging her head in mock anguish.

  A young soldier kneeled by her side and helped her to stand. “Hideous, godless foreigner,” he muttered between gritted teeth.

  Khara resisted calling out to her, which she did dozens of times a day. It felt as unnatural as holding her breath.

  She and Nandor passed other bowl-shaped doors integrated into columns or statuary. How many more are concealed throughout the palace in plain sight? At the fifth door, they paused while Nandor reached into the corner. He paused to strap on a quiver and sling a bow across his back. Soon Khara was lost in the maze of turns Nandor navigated without hesitation.

  On many occasions, she had overheard the palace gossips whisper in timid voices that Nandor was only partly human. They spoke of him moving unseen throughout the palace like a shadow. Now she understood; he had used these tunnels. She wondered if father had known of these secret passageways, if the two had walked them together.

  Her mind was stung by the vision of her father, lying dead in his ceremonial robe. She paused to fight back tears, not noticing that Nandor had crept farther ahead.

  Somewhere, hidden deep within her sister’s soul, was the answer to the day’s horrible violence. Khara needed to understand what and who had driven Menefra to commit murder. She knew her thoughts should be with her father; why could she only think about Menefra? Murder, treason, perhaps more. Her sister had done these things. How many others besides the vizier and General Sobo were involved?

  She hurried to Nandor, who showed her the footholds in the rock. Slowly, they climbed upward from the belly of the palace. Then, with one powerful yank, he slid open a trap door that was little more than a stone’s throw from the royal stables.

  Inside, the golden chariots encrusted with ebony and carnelian meant to dazzle pharaoh’s people and attest to Egypt’s wealth stood in precise rows. Khara recalled only a very few occasions when her father had ridden in any of them.

  “Useless,” muttered Nandor. At the opposite end, near the outdoor kitchens, he found what was he was after—a simple but sturdy hunting chariot, one not likely to receive a second glance. He harnessed a pair of horses, saying, “We need water. And find something to cover yourself with.”

  Khara filled animal skins with water from the trough, her chore on the many occasions they hunted together. Then she grabbed a blanket and joined some strips of dirty rags together and wound them around her head to hide her face.

  They disappeared within the still-unsuspecting throng. When the city lay far behind them, Khara pulled off her makeshift headdress and watched it become small in the road behind them.

  Nandor gathered a leather strap in each hand and urged the horses on until they seemed to fly. Khara turned, gazing at the white walls of Ineb Hedj glittering in the setting sun, and wondered if she would ever see them again.

  Chapter Three Khara

  Knowing that pharaoh’s army would not dare cross into the Red Land at night, Nandor and Khara drove the horses to the place universally abhorred and feared by Egyptians. There, anyone not fortunate enough to die from heat or thirst face a worse death at the hands of the ruthless Bedouins.

  They chose a secluded valley, open at each end and lined with jagged limestone cliffs. Nandor slowed the horses, guiding them away from the sly ravines. After Khara stepped from the chariot, he handed her the blanket and two water skins; he kept the third.

  Nandor unfastened the horses’ bindings and poured water into his cupped hand. While the animals drank, he whispered in their ears. When they were finished, he rubbed the sides of their necks. Though it was dark, Khara was sure she saw them nodding their heads. He said gently, “Go now, my friends.”

  Khara watched, unable to believe he would so easily discard their transportation. He sent them off without so much as a slap, or stamp, or even a shout.

  Stunned, she asked, “What now?”

  Nandor pointed to the top of the high cliffs. “We go where her cavalry cannot.”

  It was obvious that Nandor knew this place. He pushed them chariot over the edge of a deep ravine; the sound of splintering wood lowered Khara’s spirits even further. They climbed, their pace slowed by darkness and loose rock. Pretending to be exhausted so he would stop and rest, Khara took tiny sips of water while making sure Nandor drank heartily. She also checked his wounds, moving the sash to a place where the linen was still fresh.

  Two-thirds of the way up, they chose a wide ledge that would offer protection and, more importantly, an excellent view. He spread the blanket for her to sit. There was only the haunting sound of the wind blowing sand across the desert floor.

  “Even Menefra will not convince the guards to follow us here at night.”

  Nandor’s face tightened. “Superstitious fools.”

  She had never heard him say such a thing. He shook his head and followed the ledge as it curved with the mountain’s face. Soon his steps faded, leaving her alone.

  Khara spent the night under the star-filled sky. It was the first time she had ever felt completely alone. There was not even the comfort of a fire;
her only consolation was the stillness. She did not wail, or pull at her hair, or scratch herself as she had seen many a mourner do—as Menefra would surely be doing at father’s side. Instead, she watched the shadows of the hills while her tears fell and then, spent, she leaned back on the hard dirt. Tucking her knees in front of her, she drifted in and out of sleep.

  The long, mournful howling of an animal, one whose cry she could not place yet seemed strangely familiar, woke her. Nandor soon returned and sat close by, the light of the moon revealing a single tear curving around the dusty scar on his cheek.

  “Does Piri speak the truth,” Khara began, watchful of his expression, “when she says you have served the House of Pharaoh for longer than anyone can remember?” “You are too old to be listening to the stories of that blind old gossip—even if she was your nursemaid.”

  “Her tone is always gentle when she speaks of you.”

  “These things no longer matter.” He heaved a sigh and looked away. “Your father must safely pass the twelve hours of this night if he is to enter the Underworld. And he is alone,” he added dejectedly.

  After thinking for a moment, Khara said, “Father’s spirit was always stronger than his body. The gods will grant him peace. He said that the memory of a good man lives forever.”

  “So he did.”

  “What was he like when he was my age?”

  “You were always the curious one,” Nandor remarked, his smile weak. After a moment, he seemed to have made a decision; his shoulders relaxed. “I knew your father from the minute he was born because it was your grandfather who took me from my burning village.”

  “But how can that be? That would make you—”

  “A dozen soldiers poked me with the butts of their spears, waving their flimsy knives. A hoard of them surrounding a child. Still, I was not afraid and could have easily taken two or three of them down before they finished me off. It only made matters worse when pharaoh declared I was worth ten of them.”

  “What happened to your family?”

  “What always happens; they were killed trying to defend the village.”

  “Piri never told me anything of this.”

  “She wasn’t even a hope in her mother’s heart when this happened. The journey from our burning homes was a cruel one. We walked all day; by night the guards tormented us— especially the women. As an added insult, I was made to walk behind the camels and cows, the whole time wishing for nothing more than to be swallowed by the burning sand.

  “One night, after the drunken guards had finally tired of us, an asp slithered through our camp and straight into pharaoh’s tent.”

  “What happened?” Khara gasped, knowing that the bite of an asp meant certain and painful death.

  “The women screamed. There was so much screaming I couldn’t bear it anymore! The screaming of my mother, my little brother who was just learning to walk, the cries of a whole village filled my ears, and I lost my mind. I broke the shackles, found the snake at the foot of pharaoh’s cot, and bit off its head.”

  “You didn’t!”

  Nandor’s voice reminded her of happier times. “To this day, I can still taste its bitter blood and feel the wiggling head sliding down my throat.”

  “Weren’t you poisoned?”

  “I did the biting that night. The High Priest checked me over, measuring my legs and teeth as if I were a horse. In his pomposity, he proclaimed that I had been chosen to become the guardian of the House of Pharaoh.”

  “I never knew. Nor did Menefra, and she lives for gossip.”

  He shrugged. “It was long ago. In time, I became pharaoh’s protector—first for your grandfather, then for your father when he was only six. In all those years, he was the only one to offer me friendship. I should be at his side tonight.” Nandor hung his head.

  She patted his hand.

  “You and your sister have been the only innocence, the joy and happiness of my life.” Pointing to the bloody bandages, he confessed, “This pain is nothing compared to the wound to my heart. Because of my failure, the Great House of Egypt lies in ruin. There was a time,” he admitted in a low voice, “when I would have rejoiced to see Egypt fall. But that,” he murmured, “was another lifetime.

  “When your mother died in childbirth, the High Council determined that you girls should be placed with good families.

  Your father would marry again and sire sons. A lesser man would have followed their advice, but your father? He loved you both from the moment Piri wiped the blood from your faces.”

  The anguish in Nandor’s heart was as indisputable as her own. Perhaps, she thought, squeezing away tears, it is worse.

  “I never sensed any of it.” Khara searched the black night as though some answer could be found there. “A single image, some hint of her intentions, would have been enough.”

  “Go to sleep. You will need all your strength tomorrow.”

  She lay down on the blanket, curling into a fetal position.

  “Will you stay close by?”

  “Until my last breath.”

  Several times that night she awoke wondering if it had all been a terrible dream. She and Nandor were hunting in the desert as they often did. But she was not dressed for hunting, and wore the bracelets father had given her before prayers…Finally, darkness lightened into blue-grey. Khara opened her eyes. As she stood to stretch, Nandor’s leopard skin slipped from her shoulders. She caught it and pulled it close around her, grateful for its warmth.

  Stepping to the lip of the ledge where she had spent the night, she looked out. An endless sky rested above the ocher hills and cliffs. Even Horus would envy this view, she thought.

  Khara pictured him—half-man half-falcon, his right eye the glorious sun, his left, the serene moon. If only he would spread his great wings over her, they would be saved.

  Horus would take them away through this perfect cloudless sky. Everything would be as it was…

  From the horizon, the morning sun stretched its first violet rays across the sky. “Welcome, noble sunrise,” she recited, speaking the words of her father, “constant in your abundance since the beginning of time.” This was the ritual prayer, said only by pharaoh to welcome each new day. Who would say it now? Her heart was stricken with indescribable pain.

  She blamed herself for not seeing the illness in Menefra’s heart. Was it possible that her sister, whom she had loved and shared everything with, had been her secret enemy? For how long? These thoughts cut so deeply they prompted Khara to look for Nandor.

  His steps were slow and heavy when he returned, and one foot dragged in the sand. The bandage she had tied around his wounds hung loose and bloody.

  He motioned upwards, tiredly commanding, “Climb.” Removing the last full hide of water from his neck, he placed it around hers.

  Khara’s voice trembled. “Where are you going?”

  “Away from you.” Before she could protest, he explained, “They will find me easily enough. By then, you will be well hidden, and I will say that I killed you just as I did your father.” The last words caused him to wince. “Once they are satisfied and have gone, you must join the travelers who use this route for trade.”

  “No, no!” It was too much to bear.

  He motioned her to him. Khara resisted, furious, and began to cry. He stood there like a stone while her tears fell harder.

  “I cannot,” she sobbed. “I will not leave without you.”

  “Come to me.” She wanted to refuse him, but her pride was lost to the gentleness in his voice. She went, leaning against his giant frame. At last, he put an arm around her. They stood together watching orange and violet burst across the sky. Khara simply had no words left.

  Nandor moved away first. He laid his hands on her shoulders and stared for a very long time, his face filled with pride and assurance. “You must live. Soon, merchants will come this way. You remember your teachings?”

  She did. The Bedouins were the wild nomadic people who traveled the desert for trade.
She knew their customs, even their tongue, almost as well as her own. The Assyrians were safer, their fruitful kingdom thriving outside of Egypt. The Nubians could not be trusted. They had been conquered too many times to look favorably on any daughter of Egypt, least of all the daughter of pharaoh.

  “With luck, they will be Assyrians.” Nandor pointed to a smooth road that broke the rocky surface below. “That is where they will come,” he told her, pointing to the narrow entrance they had used the night before. “From where we stand, you will know who they are.”

  “And if your plan fails?”

  Nandor struggled to remove the heavy gold cuff from around his ankle. Closing it around the top of her arm, it slipped and would have fallen into the dirt had she not spread her fingers wide. He also removed the blood-stained leather pouch and hung it around her neck.

  “This is all there is to help you. Some oil—sometimes your father needed it to anoint a deserving soul. What is left of the blinding powder. And this,” he said, referring to the cuff. “Made from the purest gold in the world. Wear it and any language is yours.” Disapproval flashed in his eyes. “And take all this off!” he exclaimed, waving at her layers of necklaces and bracelets, their gems catching the morning light. “Keep one or two hidden to trade. Leave the rest.”

  She turned her back to fasten the cuff around her thigh. When she finished, Nandor was staring out at the road he was sure would be her salvation.

  “Ah, one last thing,” he said, rubbing his hands in the dirt.

  He wiped away her tears with his fingers, leaving her face streaked and dirty. “Better. Now you look like a traveler.”

  Nandor smiled then, something he rarely did. Khara forgot her misery to appreciate his priceless gift. It was as though she was seeing his face for the first time. His eyes were a lighter, a warmer shade of brown than she remembered, and he had no brows or lashes. His black skin accentuated a large, brilliant smile.

  He took her small hand in his, saying, “Your father is gone,” he stated flatly, and his voice wavered for a moment, “so there is no one left to tell you this but me. He raised you to be a great queen, Khara. The education of your tutors will serve you someday, but not now.” He shook her hands, regaining his fierce expression. “Haven’t I taught you to fight and hunt the same as if you had been pharaoh’s son? Better than a son!” he encouraged, smiling. “As if you had been my own…” He lifted her chin. “Do not be afraid. It is your destiny to bring change.