Lynda Robinson: Eater of souls

"Ky?"

He jumped and whirled, breathing hard, ready to fight. His vision focused on a man bathed in newborn sunlight- the sharp jaw angle, the smooth obsidian hair, the muscled body wrapped in transparent linen.

"Father," Kysen said, forcing his lips to curve upward.

Meren ignored his smile. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I was deep in a memory-that man who was killed by the crocodile at the country house."

Joining Kysen by the wall, Meren leaned on it and gazed into the distance. A few moments of silence passed as they watched the pyramids of the ancient ones burst into white stone flame. Kysen glanced once at his father, who seemed far more calm than any mortal ought to be given their predicament.

"You're still worried." Meren spoke with the tranquillity of a sunbathing lion.

Kysen tried to match his father's composure with a light tone. "Worried? No, not worried." He turned to skewer Meren with a look. "Not worried-terrified."

"I'll be careful."

"The queen's murderer was careful, and he's dead. The Great Royal Wife was powerful, clever, and careful, and she's dead."

Meren shoved himself away from the wall, turned his back, and strolled into the shade of an aged sycamore whose branches arched over the roof. Wind whipped the gossamer robe around his legs and ruffled his hair. He had yet to don a formal wig or the rest of the jewelry befitting one of his rank. Without these it was easier to see the long cords of muscle in neck, shoulders, and arms, kept taut by hours' practice with scimitar and dagger, and yet more hours mastering chariot, bow, and spear. Meren turned back to Kysen, his expression severe.

"The slaying of a queen is a foul sin against the proper order of the world-Maat-the harmony and balance of life as the gods ordained."

"People are killed every day," Kysen snapped.

"Not queens!"

Meren's voice rang out, startling birds into flight from the sycamore. With Kysen giving him a round-eyed look, Meren shut his mouth, thrust his fists behind his back, and went on.

"Forget high principles. I told you, Ky. Whoever ordered the queen killed had to be well placed at court. Someone that powerful probably survived the purge of those who supported the heretic and his attacks on the ancient gods. And he-they-are most likely still at court or close to it."

"But now we have the golden one," Kysen replied. "Tutankhamun, may he have life, health, and prosperity, grows in power daily. Pharaoh is favored by the great gods, beloved of the people. What good will it do to risk your life when Nefertiti has been dead so long?"

Meren strode back to Kysen, halted within an arm's length, and planted his fists on his hips. "You know why I have to find him, this murderer of queens. If he would dare to kill a Great Royal Wife, he would dare an even greater anathema. Such a criminal might dare to kill a pharaoh." Meren inclined his head as he gazed at his son. "You've been training as the Eyes of Pharaoh for a long time. Why are you so worried now? This is what we do-inquire into dangerous secrets, offenses, and transgressions, shield and defend the king."

"Of course I know," Kysen said. He drew nearer to his father, hearing his voice lower and at the same time strengthen in tone. "But something's different. You're different. I see it in your eyes, in the way you take refuge in isolation and the way you stare into nothingness, as if you see something so frightening you can't look away." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I have seen you afraid, afraid for me, for my sisters, for pharaoh. But now you're not frightened for someone. You're frightened of someone, or something, so frightened that you won't even speak of it, for fear of giving this mysterious terror power. It's as if you're afraid speaking of it will let this evil that tortures you loose to ravage without hindrance and destroy us all."

Kysen kept his gaze fixed on Meren's. As he'd spoken, Meren had drawn over his features a mask of diplomacy, courtliness, and artifice. Kysen had seen him do this when confronted by intrigue among his fellow nobles or when playing a part to draw out victims suspected of anything from stealing royal grain to plotting pharaoh's death, but he'd never been subjected to it himself. That his father would use this mask against him chilled his bones as if they were encased in that frozen whiteness he'd seen on foreign mountains. His hurt and bewilderment must have shown, for Meren turned away, lowered his head for a moment, then faced him, his features released from cold composure.

"I'm sorry. You're not the enemy," Meren said.

Kysen sighed his relief. "Then you'll let this old evil rest."

"No."

"But-"

"Enough!" Meren closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and went on. "I've had someone search the tax rolls and found Queen Nefertiti's favorite cook. She and her husband have retired to a family farm south of the city. I'm going there to begin our search."

"And what will pharaoh say when you leave court to visit a humble cook?" Kysen said, throwing up his hands.

"I'm going as an ordinary scribe." Meren held up a warning finger. "No objections. You're going to be too busy to fret about me. You're going to prowl among your friends in the dock taverns and beer houses. Find that woman-is her name Ese? Find Ese and ask her about the old days when the heretic ruled. I don't have to tell you what methods to use."

"Ese is a mistress of a tavern. What could she know of the wife of a living god?"

It was Meren's turn to sigh, only with an air of tried patience. "You know very well that common villains often are privy to unspeakable evil long before royal ministers. I leave in a few days. And you, my son, will do as I command. You will also abandon these foolish suspicions that I'm hiding something from you."

Pressing his lips together to stop himself from protesting again, Kysen nodded, a slight, grudging gesture.

Meren eyed him suspiciously. "I'm determined on this, Ky."

"Yes, Father."

"And your worries are groundless."

"Of course, Father. If you declare it, it is so."

He bore Meren's inspection with calm, knowing Meren would soon be distracted by the business of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh. Then he'd have to take certain measures without his father's approval or advice. It was a thing he'd never done.

Egyptian sons followed the paths of their fathers. They obeyed, or they were disciplined. Kysen knew Meren would expect no less of him. It had taken him years to accept Meren, but once he had, he'd realized that his father was a man of great discernment and authority.

As Meren began to speak of the day's duties, Kysen's thoughts strayed. Unlike his blood father, Meren had never raised his hand against Kysen. Everyone obeyed Meren. It would never occur to his father that they wouldn't. This attitude, Kysen had discovered, was one of the most important sources of a great man's power. Another, even greater source arose from the fact that, if he chose, Meren could decree punishments far worse than any his miserable blood father had produced.

Kysen remembered stealing pomegranates from the kitchen with Bener years ago. Meren had made him copy the unending precepts of the sage Ptahhotep five times. To Kysen it had seemed like five thousand copies. He had suffered sore fingers and excruciating boredom. But never once had Meren struck him. If Meren was in danger, Kysen would protect him at the cost of his own life.

"Are you listening to me, Ky?"

Kysen blinked once. "Of course, Father." He smiled for the first time in two days. "I was remembering how Bener and I used to steal pomegranates."

Meren grinned at him.

"I must confess something," he said. "Sometimes I'd tell the servants to let you steal them without complaining."

"Did you, by the gods? Why?"