Lynda Robinson - Slayer of Gods

“Do so at once,” Meren said.

As Nebamun busied himself with the contents of his physician’s box Reia came in and saluted.

“You sent for me, lord?”

With a last look at Kysen, Meren moved away from the bed. “Tell me what happened from the moment you left this house.”

The charioteer related the day’s events, and Meren stopped him after he told of the visit to Othrys.

“He saw the pirate alone?”

“He said it’s difficult to see Othrys at all, and having a charioteer at his side would make it impossible.”

“He’s right,” Meren said. “But he told you he had wine with Othrys.”

“Yes, lord, but he didn’t become ill until after drinking with that Asiatic.”

“What else did he say?”

Reia glanced at Kysen’s prone body, and a spasm of remorse passed across his face. “When he left the pirate’s house he was agitated. He said he’d discovered that Othrys had been at Horizon of the Aten when the queen died. He said that-”

Meren cursed. “You’re certain?”

“Yes, lord. He was disturbed, and said if we didn’t find Dilalu soon we would return and tell you about it.”

A wave of chill dread passed over Meren, and the panic he’d fought against so long raged unchecked. “Damn you, Reia, if Othrys has been lying all along, and Kysen found out-”

“The pirate,” Reia said.

Their eyes met, and they both sprang for the door. Meren got there first and flung it open. He ran through Golden House with Reia at his heels, his heart burning with thoughtless rage. He burst onto the loggia and came to a sudden halt. Reia nearly ran into him. He stood still, distracted and uncertain. The pirate had never entered into his evaluation of the queen’s murder, and Othrys knew too much. If he was guilty, he posed a lethal threat. Reia was watching him anxiously.

“I can’t take the chance,” Meren muttered. He glanced at Reia. “But I can’t rush to attack and risk him dying before I force him to tell me what he’s done to Kysen.” He ran his hand through his hair. “We’ll do this another way.”

Hurrying to his office, Meren penned a courteous note requesting a visit from Othrys. Reia left to give it to a porter. When he returned Meren gave him quiet instructions and returned to Kysen’s bedside to watch Nebamun cast spells of protection and healing. It was dark by the time Othrys arrived.

Meren received the pirate on the master’s dais in the hall. Striding in as if he were walking across the deck of one of his ships, Othrys stopped at the steps of the dais, planted his hands on his hips, and gave Meren an annoyed scowl.

“Greetings, Egyptian. What news have you that I must leave my table and my guests and rush across the city to hear it?”

Meren made a concise motion with his hand, and charioteers appeared at every door to the hall. Othrys looked at them and narrowed his eyes.

“What game is this?”

Leaning forward in his chair, Meren spoke softly with a calm he didn’t feel. “My son has been poisoned. He lies near death, and if you are responsible, I will have the remedy from you or by all the gods I’ll tear your heart out with my bare hands. You have until the count of ten to confess.” Meren sat back. “One.”

The charioteers began to close in on Othrys. His gaze darted from one group to the other.

“Two.”

“You’re mad,” he snarled.

“Three.” The charioteers surrounded Othrys.

“Four.”

“I did nothing!”

“You failed to reveal your presence at Horizon of the Aten when the queen died. Five.”

“It wasn’t important,” Othrys cried as the charioteers grabbed his arms and legs.

“Six.” Meren stood. “Every scrap of information you gave to me could have been designed to lead me away from you. Seven.”

“If I was who you say, I could have killed you when you came to me for help, you fool.”

“You might have intended to kill me and were prevented,” Meren said as he came down the dais steps. “Eight.” He drew his dagger.

Othrys was sweating as he strained against the men who held him. “I could have killed you the moment you stepped into my house, by the Earth Mother.”

“Nine.” Meren positioned himself in front of the pirate.

Othrys uttered an obscenity and spat on the floor. “You’re mad.”

“You said that. Ten. I think I’ll chop your heart out of your chest in the manner of Eater of Souls.” Meren raised his dagger.

“Wait!” Othrys rushed on when Meren paused. “I swear by the Earth Mother I did nothing to Kysen. I was at Horizon of the Aten. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to become involved in the contendings of great ones. It never pays. I did no wrong-toward the great royal wife, that is. I had no reason. She didn’t interfere with my affairs. She didn’t even know I existed.”

Meren looked into the pirate’s sky-colored eyes and read fear, desperation, and anger, but nothing else. He shook his head, suddenly uncertain and too filled with his own dread to risk making a fatal mistake. He felt drained. A moment ago he’d been ready to kill this man, suffused with an ungovernable wrath that burned away all moderation, reason, and control. Othrys’s protests had broken through the clamor in his head, the urge to take some action, any action. With the return of reason came the feeling of powerlessness. Meren turned away.

“Hold him in the barracks. Make certain he talks to no one.”

Meren headed for Kysen’s room, the curses and protests of Othrys ringing in his ears as he was dragged out of the hall. Anath had joined Bener in the sickroom, and Nebamun was busy concocting some magical preparation at a table. Meren stood at the foot of the bed and gazed down at his son, who lay as still as a votive figurine. What would he do if he lost Kysen? He winced at the jagged tearing pain the thought provoked. For over ten years this boy had been a part of his life, ever since the day long ago when he encountered that old brute, Pawero, trying to sell his son in the streets of Thebes. He’d been on his way to a meeting with General Horemheb and passed a market in an open area around a well.

“Healthy young boy here!” Pawero had bawled. “Who needs a strong boy for hard labor?”

He glanced at the two, father and son, surprised that any man would hawk his son like a bolt of linen. He looked more closely and saw a scrawny body, inexpertly cropped and dusty hair, and large, half-moon eyes. His gaze traveled rapidly over the purple, yellow, and green blotches on the child’s arms, legs, and back. His lower lip was swollen, and he held himself in that careful, still manner that spoke of bruised or cracked ribs. But what fixed in Meren’s memory was the child’s haunted look, that sorrowful and doomed expression.

All this he saw in a glance and walked on, his steps growing slower and slower. At the edge of the market he turned to look at the pair again. Pawero was entreating a prospective buyer. He suddenly turned and gave the boy a smack on the head.

“Straighten up, Kysen. Show the man your fine muscles.”

Kysen held his thin body more erect, and when his father turned away, gave him a look of contempt and defiance that contained the spirit of a warrior. Meren hesitated, admiration dawning. The child had obviously been mistreated for a long time. He could see old scars beneath the bruises. Yet this boy had somehow managed to preserve his courage, which spoke of a strength of heart beyond anything Meren would have expected. As he drew near the well, Pawero kept chattering to his customer with a servile smile plastered on his face.

Kysen looked on, resigned. When the customer moved away, Pawero trotted after him, but the boy remained where he was. It was then that Meren heard him speak for the first time.