Chapter 1

"I hear terrible rumours." said Seto.

"What are you saying?" asked Aknadin.

The two men stood in Seto's bedchamber. The door was locked. The room was sparsely furnished and austere, according to his taste. There was a bed in the corner, and opposite it against the stone wall, there was a single desk and chair. On the desk sat a couple of pieces of papyrus and an unlit lamp, as it was day. Light filtered through the small circular window above the bed.

"It's hard to believe you haven't heard them, Master Aknadin."

"Oh Seto, I didn't think such things upset you. Pay them no mind, they come with the palace life."

Yes, the palace life. Those two words can excuse any frivolity.

"Does a person trouble you?" continued Aknadin.

"Many do."

"What have they said to you?"

"These people don't say a thing before me. But it's not hard to spot words being exchanged behind hands as I pass. And that is to say nothing of the conversations that must be had behind closed doors."

"What have you heard?"

"Bebi, the priest of the goddess Isis, claims I hold no faith in her."

"A little impiety is not unusual. I doubt many besides Bebi will care."

"There were whispers that I siphon funds from the troops under my command. I believe Harwa, the chief of the palace guards, is their source."

"The practice is common enough. As long it's modest you have no reason to worry."

"But I do no such thing!"

"Even better."

"And then Ineni, the wife of the governor of Asyut, she is among of the worst. Her hostility is infectious. She tells the governor of Qift that I plot to throw him from his seat."

"Is there any truth to that? Few liars are brazen enough to invent a tale without a single strand."

"The man disappoints in his rule, I've said that. I'm sure there are others that think the same. Regardless, I've done nothing to undermine his position."

Aknadin nodded. He wore a sympathetic frown. "You are a good man, Seto, I know that. You are undeserving of any of this venom. But you must understand this is as natural as breath among our rank. Honour bestowed on one is a reproach for forty. And-"

He continued after a pause, "You have no family. No ancestry. A commoner reaching such heights is without precedent. You must see how it could rouse envy or contempt. Take Ineni, you know that her son is not far from you in age."

"She's a fool if she thinks her son is fit to be a High Priest. I could name a dozen that would be chosen before him."

"I could too, but that's unimportant. You must understand that such sentiments are common in the courts. Everyone understands this, and so you have no reason to worry. You're beyond reproach."

"If a hundred talk, don't you think the chances are one will act. There is not much distance from the mind to the hand."

Aknadin clasped his shoulder. "Seto, paranoia is unhealthy, it will destroy you. You fulfill your duties without flaw. None of the other High Priests have issue with you. And most importantly, you have the Pharaoh's confidence."

If only those words with a warm gesture were enough to calm his mind. These issues had swirled within him for too long. Aknadin's reassurances were not new, he had many times considered them himself, and many times they had fallen short.

"Slander corrodes reputation. Who knows what others believe of me."

"Just behave as you do. Give them no blemish at which to point. You've carried yourself admirably for so long, and there is no doubt you'll continue to do so."

Seto's lips formed into something of a smile. It showed not joy but contempt. "Very well, Master! Let us hope! Let us be optimists!"

"Seto!" The wrinkles on the old man's brow and on the corners of his eyes and mouth became more pronounced. Those lines betrayed frustration. "What else could we do?"

"Nothing! Nothing at all!"

This conversation which had began at whispers had now reached barks.

Seto pursued, "Isn't it great? That my only course is to walk and hope I don't slip."

The two men, who were closer than any other among the High Priests, stood in a strange silence. Aknadin searching for words to console and Seto basking in the bitter vindication of the unanswered phrase. Seto shut his eyes and took a breath, "Forgive me, Master. When I think of these things my head ferments."

"It's fine." said Aknadin, though his face gave no such ease.

The two waited for the other to speak, when neither did, Aknadin took a few steps toward the desk and appeared to study the papyrus. It was a moment where it would be unfit to end a conversation but the means to continue it eluded them. The lull was interrupted by a knock. The two men turned to the door and then glanced at each other. Aknadin took hurried steps towards Seto.

"Could we have been heard?" whispered Aknadin.

"It's alright," declared Seto, his voice full. "The walls are thick. Outside a muffle would be caught, if even that."

Seto took five paces to the door and pushed the panel. Before him stood a well built man with shoulder length black hair. He wore a long strip of white cloth that wrapped around his legs and then passed diagonally from his waist to his shoulder.

Seto was the first to speak, "Karim."

"You were nowhere to be found so I thought I would check your bedchamber." Spotting the second occupant over Seto's shoulder Karim made a curt bow, "Master Aknadin."

Aknadin gave a nod to acknowledge the man.

"Did you need something?" asked Seto.

Karim laughed, "I wouldn't disturb you otherwise."

"Of course, what is it then?" Seto considered himself a reserved man, and aside from Aknadin there were not many with whom he conversed. Karim was in a strange spot— he was more than an acquaintance and less than Aknadin. Among the High Priests Karim was his partner, they were similar in age, and he was a pleasant man. Something of a friendship existed between them, though it was one that remained at an arm's length.

"A representative from a small town upriver had an audience with the Pharaoh this morning—"

"Ah, that's what it was."

"He spoke of some gruesome discoveries. In the past few weeks six corpses with gashes through the torso or holes in the throat were discovered. It's a tiny place. The people know each other and they are unknown to such violence. They worry that some wicked spirit lurks among them."

"And so the Pharaoh ordered the two of us to go over? That's a shame. Is it far? The weather is poor."

"It's only a few hours from the capital. Our entire procession will have horses."

"When do we leave?"

"Now."

Seto glanced at the hole that was his window. The rain had started. "The gods smile upon us."

Karim cast a sympathetic smile. "Let us hope it doesn't worsen."

"One would think Shada was suited for this work." said Aknadin.

This was in fact true. The Millennium Key could search souls, there was no better tool for the task.

"Shada was busy with some more interesting work." answered Karim. "He discovered a strong Ka, and he is occupied with that."

"How interesting." Seto said drily.

Strong Ka were uncommon, but not extraordinary. To call the event interesting would be to use the word lightly.

"No, this one is singular. On that Shada was adamant. I would say he was even worried. He spoke of a white dragon. I've heard of it in the whispers of peasants."

Without, there was no mark on Seto's countenance. His lips may have parted and he may have drawn a breath. Nothing of note. But within there was a tumult. The White Dragon. Yes, that is what he heard. That terrible night resurfaced. A decade must have passed since then, yet that scene was etched in his conscience. His village ablaze, his neighbours slaughtered, his mother burned, and himself caught by the arsonists. In that underworld the dragon appeared. It was radiant, blinding perhaps, and it erased the brigands as light does to shadows. Such visions produce a strong impression on a child. He believed it to be a god. For a time, at least. When he learned of Ka that dragon was robbed of its divinity, but in spite of that knowledge it was sublime. No, perhaps in his heart it became even grander. It was the difference between laying his salvation at the feet of nature or laying it at the feet of an individual. The second was more affecting. For a proud man it was a strange thought. And to who did he owe his gratitude? He did not know. He had his suspicions.

His mind did not focus on Karim as he talked, but he caught a few words:

"Some folk were beating her with stones. A witch they called her. It's fortunate Shada was passing then. He brought her to the palace."

A woman? There was another agitation in his soul. Could his conjectures have been true?

"This woman, how did she look?"

"I haven't seen her."

"Where is she kept?"

"In the wing of the palace by the gardens. Do you want to see the Ka?"

"No, I don't. Are we leaving now?"

In truth he did, more than anything. But his past was for himself. He spoke of it not even to Aknadin, and it would remain that way. There was no need to invite others into his thoughts. There was no hurry, he would satisfy his curiosities on his own.

"Immediately, the horses are ready."

"Very well."

Karim bowed to Aknadin and headed away from the chamber. Seto allowed Aknadin to pass under the doorframe. He pursued the two after setting the lock.

It was nearly midnight when he returned to the palace. He walked in the direction of his chamber. The day was more dull than difficult. As suspected, a man in that town did harbor a spirit. He was brought back to the capital and he would undergo the Millennium Trial at sunrise. Through the whole day, since he heard of it, his mind could not wander from the White Dragon. It was a raft against the tide. He could not steer his thoughts.

Curiosity takes many forms. In Seto it was an itch. Was it her? Could it be her? These notions had played through his head many years ago and now they recurred. When he learned of Ka in his books, that slave girl was the first he associated with the White Dragon. Despite the years that had passed her appearance was in his memory. It was uncanny. Her skin was paler than any Egyptian, she had the eyes of a foreigner, and colourless hair. If that dragon could take human form it would look something of the sort. But there was the question of nature. It was meekness against ferocity. What a contradiction! A personal Ka was born from the soul of the possessor, so how could she have such a monstrous creature? And if she did have it, how could common slave-traders take her?

These arguments battled in his mind. He would lean in one direction and then he would be pulled back in the other. A terrible pendulum! These warring ideas would not allow him rest. He grew impatient. He stopped before the palace's living quarters. It wouldn't be hard to confirm—he just needed a glance. He turned and began his way towards the wing. He walked under the flattened arches, past the soldiers' quarters, and across the courtyard. Rain had gathered water, and mud splashed at his ankles. It was a black night as there was no moon. The only light came from burning lamps resting on periodic posts. When he arrived at the wing which housed chambers for guests midnight had no doubt passed. By the sun it was a beautiful facade of masonry. In darkness it was a rectangular black mass, as ugly as it was dismal. The sentry that stood by the entrance would have been asleep had he arrived some minutes later.

"Who is this?" the man demanded, "Show yourself!"

As Seto stepped into a discernible range the sentry straightened, "P-Priest Seto!" he saluted.

Seto walked by him without acknowledgement. How strange it must seem to appear without warning so late into the night? Regardless, he had no intention to explain his reasons to some outpost. As a High Priest it was his prerogative. He paced along the hall. He took a left turn and then a right. He ascended steps, walked a few dozen paces, met a wall, and he turned back. The chambers were all empty. The palace did not have many visitors in this season. Perhaps he should have asked the sentry where they kept this person. Just as he was about to retake his steps he spotted a guard standing at the corner of a corridor. He continued in that direction. The man was armed with a spear and he stood watch beside a shut door.

"Who's in there?" asked Seto.

The man flinched as he had not heard him approach. Like the first guard he saluted when he could see, and then he answered, "A woman."

"She must have a name."

"I don't know it, I was just asked to stand here."

"What for?"

"So she doesn't wander."

"Is it the one Shada found?"

He nodded.

Seto moved to pass the door. The guard held out his arm to block his path. "She is asleep, perhaps tomorrow would be better."

The man had an admirable nerve.

"It's fine, I just need a glance."

"Oh, well—"

Before the guard could finish Seto had penetrated the chamber. The man did not protest. The slanders on his name made others wary of him. At times he appreciated the effect.

The room was immense, far too big for a lone occupant. This extravagance was measured. What better way to show the kingdom's power than to drown visitors in its riches? An oil lamp sat on a stand in a far corner and it cast a dim light. It did little to illuminate the den. The blackness engulfed the flame. Seto seized the lamp. Without it he was blind, with it he could see could see an arm's length before him. He saw the movement of a shadow. His eyes followed it, but in the obscurity it vanished. He walked as a blind man would, feeling the ground at every step. He waved the lamp to extend its reach. He stopped. A chill ran through his skin. Face to him was a phantom. It had a pallid complexion, a sickly thinness, and unkempt hair falling over the face. All features were colourless besides the eyes. And what the eyes had in colour they lacked in life. In them he saw a vague weariness, one that an interrupted sleep alone could not answer. He shuddered. This was no phantom, this was the woman!

"It is you!" he said.

She did not stir. He did not even know if she heard him.

"What is your name?" he asked.

No reply.

"You were that slave girl."

Silence.

"Those bandits! In the village! That creature was yours, wasn't it?"

She blinked.

"It has to be! I am not wrong, it was you!"

She blinked twice more. Her lips parted. Still, she uttered not a sound.

"Speak!"

She took a timid step towards him. She tightened her eyes, she rubbed them, she squinted.

"Woman, are you deaf? Are you mute?"

At once her eyes grew. They were large, round, and blue. A wave of colour passed over her face. It could have been compared to the opening of a flower at dawn. Her lips, her eyes and her brow smiled with one accord. It was hard to say which was more radiant, the burning oil or her visage. She whispered with the voice of a bird: "Se-to?"

There was a conflagration in her mind. Her breath was shallow. Her lips quivered. Was it possible? Could a dead man live? In order to grasp the force of her thoughts it is necessary to return to the events of that night, and to consider them amidst the landscape of her mind and among the scenery of her world.

She belonged to that class that has existed in all great cities through the ages, the one that made priests blush and honest folk turn away, she was among the children of the street. What are these children? A bit of everything. Lost youth, abandoned babes, runaway urchins, in a word, unfortunate children. The roads were a callous orphanage, they adopted all and cared for none. Abject poverty was the common trait among them, and this was one of the few. They came in all forms: boy or girl, robust or frail, solitary or social, and so on. How did they sup? Who knows. Perhaps on some crumbs or herbs or on the occasional purloined fruit. Perhaps on trash. Where did they sleep? It could only be imagined. Beside a wall, under a cart, among the straw of farms, there were many such beds and none of them enviable. In society they were the closest to animals; they were capable of the sweetest gestures of sympathy and also of feral barbarism. At one end of the boulevard a boy could share his onion, the only food he held that day, with two younger shrimps. And at the other end, some unhappy scamp would be cudgelled because he had pillaged a garbage heap that as not his to pillage.

This was the world in which she roamed and she could not recall how she entered it. She possessed an unlucky combination of traits for a creature of this jungle. Her timidity began her solitude and her incongruous aspect completed it. She was an outcast among outcasts. How is it that one such as her could survive? It is hard to say. Human tenacity must be given some credit, though it is suspected that chance has a larger share.

She, along with those of her breed, that is to say those of the street, had one principal foe: necessity. Hunger, thirst, and weather were their first persecutors. It was a battle that renewed each day. Somehow she limped through the years, usually with her stomach wanting, beaten by the sun, drenched by the rain, sometimes bruised, but alive.

One night, in the darkness where these events often unfold, she was found by another persecutor: slavers. Orphaned beggars were ideal targets for these traffickers. Who would miss them? Not their relations as they had none, nor the city as they were embarrassments. Necessity can be resisted to some extent, the gut can be ignored and heat and cold endured, it is not so with slavers. They were less forgiving of defiance.

And so this girl, innocent of any crime, was passed from the callousness of society to its wickedness. She was so undeserving of this misfortune that she would have been in the right had she called to account the gods. But she made no such complaints. She accepted her lot as the natural order things, with head bowed, shoulders slumped, with few words, and with a darkened horizon. Her heart did not curse her luck nor her captors, in it there was a deep exhaustion alone.

Having walked through this world without a friend, what else could she feel but confusion when on a night she was offered a hand by a boy no bigger than her yet who she remembered as a giant. After he pulled her to the horse's back, and as she realized he sought to bear her away from the slavers, what chance did she have to resist the intoxicating metamorphosis of confusion into joy? And he succeeded! She had hardly met this seraph when she had to turn to wave goodbye. He went in the direction of his village and she towards the town. And when she turned round for a second time only to see the boy's village on fire, what tremor must have tore through her soul? He had brought her salvation and she had brought him ruin.

When she had somehow found her way to the town, which was in panic as its sister was burned, she clasped the leg of the nearest man and pointing in the direction whence she came she cried "A village is on fire!"

"We know! We know! We saw! Some of our men are rushing there."

"Is anyone alive? There must be!"

"How should I know? Wait for the riders to return."

She waited by the gate of the town. The returning horses brought the following words: "No survivors." Her heart was rent. Hours ago she had experienced joy she had not known existed, and fate not happy with this turn, had then shown her new depths of anguish.

He had given her freedom and then he was thrown into a pyre. He had inflicted on her a savage wound; he had craved his name into her soul. She returned to the life of the street as there were no other paths before her. Her life was as it had been except she had one more possession: a memory. She guarded it in a corner of her heart. And there it stayed. Years passed by. It is said that a sensation is dulled by time. It was not so for her. It is true that she swam in those memories less often as she aged, but they retained their sharpness. When she would be woken in the middle of the night by blows for having unknowingly slept on a straw pallet that belonged to another, she would think as she fled with aching limps and face: "How different those hands were from those that pulled me from that cage."

And when, starving, she would plead with a baker for a morsel of bread, only to be refused, she would think to herself: "I am not even deserving of a morsel of bread from a store of a thousand. So what does that say of the one who gave me his life?"

And thus she thought as she lived. A soul needs light to survive, just as a body needs nourishment. A soul deprived of light decays and becomes horrible. Receiving no rays from the world, she subsisted off the radiance of a memory. Every blow from without made that singular act brighter. It was the sad parasitism of joy on misery. It was gratitude brought to an extreme. It had become exaltation.

Returning to the events of the story, awoken from her sleep and it the obscurity of the den, it was this consecrated face that she recognized. Having painted the picture of her past, it would be fair to leave the veil over her mind at that moment. Some emotions reach an unintelligible pitch. They ought not to be untangled as in the process something of them will be lost. It was a fever and a tempest, and that is all that will be said.

The man before her spoke, but she did not hear. She was adrift in reverie.

He pursued, "Listen! Answer me!" There was no effect on her aspect.

"What a bizarre woman." he said aloud. "I must be the first to have seen a phantom become a statue."

At last her tumult settled on a question,—

"How are you alive?" she whispered.

He cast her a strange glance. "I don't understand you. What is your name?"

"Your home was burned."

"So you remember me? Then you spare us some time. Give your name."

"And you along with it."

"Clearly not. Your—"

"How?"

"You should know better than I."

The insinuation went past her grasp. He waited for her reply, but she stood silent. His eyes travelled along her profile. By degrees his brow became severe. Then at once he gracelessly clasped her wrist and pulled her arm toward the lamp.

So implicit was her admiration that she did not blink. He could have pulled a blade in the terrible red light of the flame and she would not have flinched.

"Fine!" he said. "Hide your name if you wish, but answer this: why would allow yourself to be battered with rocks? Look at these purple gashes and black swells. Are you so foolish that you think stones can't kill? I know the White Dragon is yours. Why didn't you chase them away?"

The White Dragon. These words were the chill of the world on the dreamer. She ardently shook her head. Her lips moved but not a word escaped.

"No, no, no!" she wished to say, "You're wrong! I'm not a witch!"

"Why do you shake your head?" he said, "Shada confirmed it. And I saw it myself on that night."

She continued her fierce and wordless denial. That creature haunted her. It brought her so much grief. And worst of all, she had no memory of it. It is unfair to be charged for a crime of which you are ignorant. She had been denounced many times before, but she couldn't think of anything more terrible than to be reviled by the one she idolized. The being, whose back she had enshrined in her heart, would turn and say "You monster."

Yet, wasn't he right? There were convenient blotches of mist in her memories. Something must have lurked in that veil. Besides, even if she had not seen it she had felt its breath. A soul could snarl. Her vision grew indistinct. There was a wetness in her eyes. The man let go her arm and took a hurried step back. "Ah, no," he stammered, "I didn't mean to startle you." He watched her intently. He continued—

"I suppose it's late, and I upset you. I will take my leave. Thank you, I will say it even though you deny your act, and goodbye."

She was perplexed. That was all? She feared his condemnation, and instead she received his grace. She had braced herself for the blow, and she received the caress.

"I am a fool." she thought, "I doubt that noble head is even capable of meanness."

The man had turned his back towards her and he stepped towards the door. She was seized by a sudden courage. The last time he had parted it was from the world. She caught the tail of his robe between her thumb and index finger and gave it soft tug. He halted and watched her over his shoulder. This time the puzzlement was his.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"To my chamber."

"Is it far?"

"No."

"How will you get there?"

"Through the courtyard."

"No, I mean, how will you leave this room?"

His expression said her words were nonsense, but he answered regardless: "Through that door, how else?"

"But won't that armed man bar your path?"

"Why would he?"

"Because he bars mine."

He stared at her. The sense of her words trickled into his mind like liquid through a sieve. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. And then at once his shoulders shook with a soft chuckle.

"He stands there on orders. Does he displease you?"

"Ah, no, he's very kind. He always fills that jug with water. And many times today he gave me a plate with bread and onions and meat. There was so much I could never eat it all. It was very good of him." She cast her eyes towards the ground, and added in a low and doleful voice, "But I'm stuck here. I feel as if I'm in a cage."

"I see," said the man, "very well, I owe you at least that much. I'll have you released, though not tonight as all are asleep. I'll settle the matter at sunrise."

His tail slipped from her grasp and he went out the door. He stopped at the threshold.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Kisara."

"Then, until tomorrow."

The moon was on its descent when he returned to his chamber. He lay on his bed but he could not sleep. All worked against him. The air was moist, the heat not much better than the day, the night was closer to the hour he woke than the hour he slept, and worst of all was his preoccupation with that woman. Her thoughts were opaque. She was an enigma.

He turned to one side, sat up, walked to window, then to his desk to light his lamp, he glanced at the papyrus with the history of Tanis, he scanned without reading, losing interest he returned to the bed and shut his eyes.

He was roused from a semi-unconsciousness by a knock. He ignored it. There was a second knock. With lethargy his eyes moved from the vault to the window. The sun had hardly risen. The rap against the door was persistent. He dressed himself in his robes and then answered it.

"What is it you want?" he asked the unlucky guard before him.

The man bowed low, perhaps to alleviate his offense, and then straightening he said,—

"The Pharaoh requests your presence."

"So early? What for?"

The guard, armed with the traditional spear and dressed in the common skirt, had his eyes riveted to the floor. He had a companion with him, who was of the same lot, but larger and more brawny. His head too was inclined as if from some invisible force. Neither answered.

"Well?" persisted Seto.

"Ah, I don't think—" the shorter man faltered, "we were told little."

Seto glanced from one man to the other. "Let us be off." he said when they added nothing, "I suppose it must be worth something since it comes with such haste."

There was a throng of courtiers outside the great wooden double door of the throne room. There was an indiscernible buzzing among them. The presence of courtiers before this hall wasn't an uncommon sight, but so many at this hour was unnatural. The pale light of the emerging sun lent them a mystifying air. It was a congregation of well dressed and jewel-incrusted hounds. As he approached he was seen by one, and then two, and then five, and in proportion a hush passed over the group. They did not greet him, neither did he them. As he passed he heard some gracious words from the more bold among them,—

"I had said it, didn't I, Aya?"

"It is no good to invite some upstart into the palace. Who knows what King Aknamkanon was thinking."

"He is still so vain."

"But is it true?"

Seto watched only ahead. The throng parted to let him pass. He felt malevolent gazes upon him. The words were louder than he remembered them, and the faces stood closer. It was as if the shadows, invigorated by a new confidence, encroached. A hand clasped his robe. Seto swung around to meet the offender. The crowd drew back. The offender was not to be seen. A small slit opened between the great doors. The hall invited him alone. He passed under the frame and the entrance closed behind him.

It was an immense rectangular space. The four walls were erected by the finest masons in Egypt, and after the masons the sculptors had their turn with the stone. Just inside the walls a colonnade formed a second rectangular perimeter. At the head of the hall, opposite the main entrance, stood a dais. On this dais was mounted a mighty throne fit only for the one who was a bit more than a man but not quite a god. The entire chamber was a pale brown, it was such that in a certain light it can be mistaken for yellow, and by the peasant mistaken for gold. Between the dais and the entrance was a vast and flat space. There was no furniture or obstacles, and here the Pharaoh's audience and vassals stood or knelt as was appropriate.

On this morning the hall had no courtiers, no pleaders, and not even its sentries. It was an eerie emptiness. At the far end he perceived seven figures and a curious sight. The Pharaoh sat on his throne with his back hunched, his head bowed, and his fingers pressing the bridge of his nose. Some paces away Aknadin was locked in argument with Mahad. They threw wild gestures and their faces betrayed indignation. Solomon, the vizier, appeared to want to interpose between the two. On the other side of the throne Shada and Karim discussed some topic, with less heat but with no less gravity. Isis was alone as she paced forward ten steps with eyes riveted to the floor, then back the other way, then forth again, and so on. Evidently whatever she contemplated had some weight.

His entrance had a magnetic effect. All words ended, all movement stopped, and all eyes were drawn to him. The young king sprung to his feet. "Seto!" he said.

Seto made a curt bow. "My Pharaoh," he returned, "I see I am the last. Anyways, there must be some considerable matter given these abrupt summons. Let me hear it. My escort knew little."

There was a shuffling of uneasy glances. Mahad was the first to step forward.

"During the night you were at the residence of visitors." he said.

"What does it matter?" retorted Seto, "Nothing forbids it." There was a sharpness to Seto's remark. He was among that strain of men that jealously guard their world. He wanted others to know nothing of himself except that which he communicated.

"There was a murder within those walls."

Seto felt as if a rod had bashed the back of his head. His mind lost its footing. "That woman!" was his first thought.

Mahad continued—

"The corpse was found prone on the stone floor. A single cut through the neck had done it. It's a shame at that age. The governor of Karnak will be upset."

Seto seized those last words as a falling man would seize a projection.

"The governor of Karnak?" he repeated.

"Yes, after all his younger brother was murdered under the Pharaoh's roof."

Seto regained his poise. "Who is criminal responsible?"

"None have been apprehended."

"What? Why not? Some savage spilt blood on these sacred grounds. He spits on the Pharaoh. We will find him at once. Who are the suspects?"

"There is only one." replied Mahad, "And it is you." An anxious movement passed through the assembled figures.

"Ha!" exclaimed Seto, "I didn't take you for a jester, Mahad. You have the knack for it. But let us be serious. This is an important matter."

"This is no jest." he said. The severity never parted from his mien.

Seto turned from one face of the assembly to the next. He looked for any hint of a laugh. He found only various shades of concern.

"Nonsense!" he cried, "I happen to find myself at a cursed place at a miserable time, and you dare name me, a High Priest, murderer? You've gone mad! And the rest of you, what do you say to this?"

Mahad's tone rose in proportion to his. "Believe me, Seto, I would deny it if I could. But look at the fatal weapon. It is there, look at it." He pointed to a small wooden box at the foot of the dais. It had no lid and no edge was longer than a forearm."

Seto rushed to the ominous container. When he stood over the box and discerned its object, his expression became pallid.

"You see?" said Mahad, "It is not fair to call us mad. Isn't that dagger yours? The blade corresponds to the wound. It was found in the courtyard."

The object which had produced such terror in Seto was in fact a dagger. Its blade was no longer then from the base of the palm to the tip of his long finger, and its handle was wrapped in a worn blue cloth. Seto stared at the weapon as if absorbed. Within him was a swirl of questions followed by answers, and understanding followed by confusion.

"I have been snared!" he exclaimed as he snapped from his trance, "The blade is mine but I didn't wield it. I thought I had innocently lost it several weeks ago. But no! Some devil had taken it!"

"Forget a devil," said Mahad, "last night the sentries admitted no man but you."

"Then it was the sentries!"

It must be noted that Seto had not slept that night. His mind was weary. A fresh head would be hard-pressed to defend against these damning blows. A fatigued mind floundered.

Mahad looked on with a pitying glance. "It couldn't have been them. The knife was found in the courtyard and the sentries of that building did not leave their post. Their peers in the vicinity could attest to it."

Aknadin was trembling and his complexion became redder at every moment. At last he burst, "A thousand possibilities Mahad, and you pick the most obvious! My Pharaoh, listen. You know Seto is infamous among our finest people. There are as many roads to this crime as he has detractors. And he has many."

"Yes," said Mahad, "there could be a thousand hypotheses but there is no evidence for these winding roads. Is it honest to ignore the glaring marks because they are inconvenient? What would the governor of Karnak say, no, what would the cities say if we brush off murder because we are acquainted with the murderer? I don't cherish my position as accuser. But one of us must do it for integrity's sake. Believe me Seto, I would expect you to do the same if I stood there and you stood here."

"Can't some Millennium Item divine if he tells the truth?" ventured Karim.

"Humiliation upon humiliation!" cried Seto. His mind was his sanctuary more hallowed than any temple. The idea of it being laid bare made him furious.

"As I was saying," replied Shada, "it is impossible. First formality has its say as a High Priest is worth as much as a noble. It would be distasteful for a man of his rank. And then, more prominently, there is the dilemma of magic. We, the seven guardians, have all read a few tomes on sorcery. Could any of you list, with any certainty, what little tricks I can perform? The same is true for us all." Shada surveyed those around him. "I see I am losing you. I mean to say that there are personal spells that can induce a short lapse in the memory of the caster. It would be unwise to rely on a Millennium Item to try a High Priest."

Aknadin and Mahad resumed their quarrel. Karim and Shada continued to converse.

Like an animal Seto had made a wild exertion when he realized he was entangled. And then, discovering the firmness of the bonds he had fallen into an impassibility. He only half heard the words of the priests around him against the frenzy of his thoughts. He was finished. Why did this happen? What wrong had he done? Gloomy ideas passed through his weary mind. A sombre haze fell over his visage.

He caught a voice, it was that of the Pharaoh. "That's enough!" the king uttered, and the hall fell silent. He continued—

"I do not want this to be true, but fairness must be upheld. Regardless, we are too close to the event to see it clearly. Let us wait ten days and then we'll convene on this issue once more."

"My Pharaoh," spoke Seto, "I am your loyal servant, on this day and on my last."

The Pharaoh directed at him a significant look, and then he nodded.

What could he have meant by those words? At first glance they were an appeal to the final judge of Egypt. One word of the Pharaoh could deliver him or destroy him. To an observer they may have appeared a desperate attempt to curry a bit of favour. But it can be proposed that there was a more profound sense to them. It may have been the cynical utterance of a man who saw only darkness before him, who could imagine the walls of an oubliette or perhaps even the platform of a scaffold. In brief, in those words was the abject attestation of a man convinced that the scale would lean against him.

The gathering was dismissed. Seto departed with this tragic mind.

Author's Notes:

I saw the Memory World arc on T.V. when it aired many years ago. Over a decade later, I somehow had the urge to write a small story in that setting. I suppose it is because I crossed an article mentioning the curtailing of Priest Seto and Kisara's story, and the diluting of the feud between Priest Seto and Atem due to the author's deadline. I hope you enjoyed reading, and let me know what elements you liked or disliked. Also, don't feel the need to be restrained in your critiques either. I appreciate them all as they inform me where my writing needs work.

I've written until chapter two so expect to see that in a few days after some revision. I found the cover image some time ago, but I couldn't find the artist responsible. If anyone knows the source, just let me know so I can credit them. Then, until next time.