Lauren Haney - The Right Hand of Amon

Bak left Amon-Psaro at the entrance to Kenamon's pavilion, and Imsiba intercepted him moments later. Eyeing the broad gold and lapis lazuli collar around Bak's neck, the wide bracelets on his arms, the Medjay's expression plainly showed his concern. "What did you tell him, my friend? That you're going with him to faroff Kush?"

Bak took Imsiba's arm and aimed him toward the quiet corner where their men had set up camp. The camp was empty, the men somewhere across the fortress watching Pasbenuro play knucklebones with the champion of the Iken garrison. Distant voices, laughter, and cursing announced the ebb and flow of the game. They hunkered down beside a thick fish stew, kept warm on a bed of coals contained within a tripod of rocks.

"I danced around the truth for a time," Bak said, "but finally told him how I felt: I'm content as I am and I have no desire to live a life of wealth and privilege. So he gave me this instead." He ran his fingers over the cool, smooth beads of the necklace. "He took them off and, with his own hands, fastened them on me."

"I thank the lord Amon!" Imsiba grinned. "When I saw you laughing together, I feared the worst." -

Bak's smile was as broad as that of his friend. He was relieved the decision was over and done with, the temptation to climb to great heights a thing of the past. "He hid his feelings, but I suspect he was relieved. He talked too freely today, more than a king should, telling me the deepest secrets within his heart. I imagine he'll be glad to see the last of me."

"The prince, Kenamon says, is doing well. How much longer, do you think, before we can go home to Buhen?" "Soon," Bak said. "The sooner the better."