It was late into the night when Satiah was roused by a rough shake of her shoulders. Her eyes flew open, greeted first by the shining face of the moon, and then by the urgent face of her handmaiden, Tuya. "Lady Satiah," Tuya breathed. "Your presence is requested in the temple."

Satiah sucked in a deep breath, then surged to a sitting position. She nodded to Tuya, who scurried off to prepare her clothes, then turned back to the open window again. The moon was full tonight, and the tides of the Nile would be at their highest. Had it not been for Tuya rummaging through her closet, she might have even been able to hear its waves, lapping against its banks not even a mile from her family's Memphis villa.

Satiah's ancestors had been nomarks of Memphis and its surrounding Ineb-Hedj nome for nearly a century, having preserved their hold on the holy land despite the comings and goings of dozens of pharaohs. Under the leadership of Satiah's father, Metjen, the nome had survived a particularly tumultuous period of warfare and invasion from foreigners, and the land was now flourishing thanks to a renewed enthusiasm for magic across the region. But just as the tides of the Nile would soon recede, Satiah knew the power of Memphis could not grow indefinitely, and the ripples of her father's ambition were starting to turn to waves in the royal waters of Upper Egypt.

Satiah's eyes were wrenched away from the moon at the sound of Tuya clearing her throat. After Satiah stood and removed her sleeping gown, Tuya quickly draped a white kalasiris over her shoulders and belted it with a blue sash, then dressed her feet in a pair of sandals.

"Thank you, Tuya," Satiah whispered as her handmaiden stood. "You can go back to bed now. I'll make my own way to the temple." Tuya bowed and excused herself. When she was gone, Satiah crossed the room to her bureau, upon which Tuya had already placed a basin of fresh water. Satiah splashed her face to wake her up fully, patting it dry with a linen cloth. With a sharp exhale, she swept down the stairs and out the door of her living quarters into the cool night air.

Quiet as a spirit, Satiah passed through the front gate of the villa complex and followed the path that led up the hill toward the great Temple of Sekhmet. The full moon outlined every beautiful detail of the temple — from its towering pylons etched with the mysteries of the gods, to the precarious parapets built centuries ago by a long-forgotten ruler. As she reached the crest of the hill, Satiah paused and looked back, nearly blinded by the sparkling reflection of the moon on the restless surface of the Nile.

"Sister."

A low voice brought Satiah's eyes back to the front gate of the temple. Her brother, Metka, was standing just inside, dressed as though he were ready for a journey— or a battle. A long cloak was fastened to the pauldron of his leather breastplate, draped over his front and partially concealing the staff he held clutched in one hand. His long black hair had been drawn up into a tight top-knot, his hazel eyes shadowed by a serious brow.

Satiah crossed through the gate into the temple courtyard, offering her elder brother a soft smile.

"Metka," she said. "What news?"

Metka was quick to start toward the entrance of the temple, and Satiah fell into step beside him. "A message," he said quietly, "from Thebes."

Satiah's heart skipped a beat. She often found a certain comfort in the validation of her intuition, but this was not one of these times.

Neither Metka nor Satiah spoke again as they walked through the temple, making it easy for her to pick up on the whispers coming from the great hall as they drew nearer. The fact that her father was not alone in the hall was another unsettling development — rarely did he consult with any advisors before speaking to his children.

As they rounded the corner into the great hall, her fears were confirmed. Standing over her father's solemn figure at the head of the table was the newest addition to the Memphis inner circle — Bakan. As far as anyone knew, this mysterious, white-haired spellcaster had been nothing more than a vagabond before arriving in Memphis six months prior. Bakan had been given an audience with her father after reports that he had saved a caravan of traders from an ambush by bandits on the outskirts of the city. The leader of the caravan told how Bakan had summoned a creature of incredible strength and vanquished the bandits in one fell swoop. In his audience before the nomark, Bakan demonstrated the might of his creature, called Diabound, in an exhibition duel with the captain of the city guard. Diabound had easily crushed the captain's ka spirit, sending the poor man to the infirmary for the afternoon to recover his exhausted ba.

Needless to say, Bakan left an impression on Satiah's father. Metjen immediately welcomed Bakan into the coveted conclave of spellcasters, an honor usually reserved only for those whose ancestors had long histories of serving the nome with honor. To Satiah, there was nothing particularly honorable about Bakan. He often fought dirty, using trap tactics and excessive violence to torment his enemies into submission. The fact that he had recently wormed his way into Metjen's advisorship also didn't help matters. But out of all the things that bothered her about Bakan, his white locks were possibly the most unsettling — legend said that men with white hair had been possessed by the ka of lost, vengeful souls.

Metjen turned his face away from Bakan as his children approached. Satiah was comforted a bit to see him smile as he stood to greet them. "There they are," he said, reaching out to embrace Satiah, then Metka. "I'm sorry to wake you at this late hour," he went on, "but this is too important to wait until morning."

Satiah flashed her eyes to Bakan, then back to her father. "Metka said there was a message from Thebes," she said.

Metjen nodded, his face looking suddenly serious. "Indeed." He turned back to the table, where he snatched up a half-rolled papyrus with the royal wax seal hanging from the bottom of the page. He held it out to his children. "It appears the great Pharaoh has requested our presence in Thebes."

Satiah stared intently at her father, ignoring the papyrus. "Why?"

Metka took the scroll and unrolled it. "'The Great Pharaoh Aknamkanon extends to the Nomark of Ineb-Hedj a cordial invitation to the capital city of Thebes. Together with the Nomark and His Conclave of Spellcasters, the Royal Court wishes to broker an exchange of our mystical knowledge in an effort to further the unity and glory of Egypt. With the dawn of a New Millenium, it is time for the great leaders of our nation to come together and celebrate our common desire for a long and prosperous dynasty.'" Metka scoffed as he rolled the scroll back up. "'New Millenium,'" he hissed under his breath. "Is this some kind of joke?"

Metjen laughed wryly. "The Pharaoh wishes he had such humor," he said. "No doubt he has heard of my distaste for his cursed Millenium Items…"

"But this is good news, isn't it?" Satiah said. Suddenly, all eyes were on her. "You heard what he said — he wants to exchange knowledge. We can use this as an opportunity to have a real conversation — to educate the royal court about the darker side of the items—"

"Satiah, don't be a fool," Metka interjected. "We are expendable to the great god-king. Ever since he forged those items, he's done nothing but fill his head with delusions of grandeur."

"I'm afraid your brother is right, my lady." Satiah's eyes snapped to Bakan. The slight smirk on his face caused her stomach to turn. "Traveling to Thebes would be like welcoming the Pharaoh to use the items on us. We can't risk that."

Satiah kept her gaze locked on Bakan's piercing brown eyes, but in her periphery she could see her father nodding his head in agreement. "Father, please consider your options here," she said, finally wresting her gaze away from Bakan. "Would you rather face the Pharaoh with honor, or spurn him and risk retribution?"

"Careful, Satiah," Metjen cautioned. "I value your judgement, but I will not have my honor questioned."

"Nobody is questioning your honor, Father," Metka said. "Satiah is simply more trusting than you or I." Metka turned to her now, laying a condescending hand on her shoulder. "If you're not careful, Sati, that trust will get you killed someday."

Satiah shot him a glare and shrugged his hand away before turning back to her father. "Trust is the only thing that binds us to our brethren," she said. "If you don't respond, you will break all trust the Pharaoh has in you — in our family."

Metjen turned his eyes down to the papyrus, which now sat discarded on the surface of the table beside him. "You're right, Sati," he said. "We can't ignore our king."

Satiah felt a pang of relief, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bakan grimace.

"Metka, send for your fastest messenger."

A bead of sweat rolled down the back of Atem's neck, dissipating somewhere between his shoulder blades. A moment later, a gust of wind blew over the trail left behind, sending the fine hairs of his neck standing on end. Between his fingers, he clutched to cold soapstone as a soldier clutches the hilt of a sword, hard enough that he could feel the blood rushing over the veins in his palm. Breaths came to him slowly and steadily, keeping his mind centered and eyes locked on the carved wooden board and tiny black and white pawns that lay before him.

Naturally, only the stakes of a game could put Atem in such a state. This one was called Senet, and it had once been his favorite — that is, until Mahad had beaten him at it twice in a row today.

Atem flashed his eyes up from the board, just barely catching the small smirk on the corner of Mahad's lips. Mahad was a clever man — a skilled spellcaster, and a childhood friend of the princes. After finishing a lengthy apprenticeship with the top priests in Egypt, Mahad had worked his way through the ranks to become Tefnak's second in command. But despite Mahad's many achievements, perhaps the thing Atem found most impressive about Mahad was that he was one of the only people in court who could beat him at a game.

Atem clutched harder to the four soapstone sticks in his hand — one side of each painted black, the other left its natural creamy sheen. With a deep breath, he leaned back and extended his hand, letting the sticks fall out of his palm and onto the surface of the table between him and Mahad. It seemed like an eternity before the sticks stopped clattering and settled into their final positions. When they did, Atem's heart leapt. All four black sides had landed face up — the best throw he could have made, and one that earned him an extra toss.

With a smirk of his own, Atem reached out and moved his last black pawns six spaces, landing on the same square as Mahad's last white one — only two squares away from the end. Atem swapped them out, sending Mahad's pawn back to the beginning of the board. "Bad luck, my friend," Atem said, before picking up the soapstone sticks and tossing them again. Mahad let out a sharp exhale as they landed with two black sides facing up, and Atem broke out into a full-on grin as he removed his last pawn from the board.

Mahad reached out and offered his hand to Atem. "Good game, my prince," he said. "A well-earned victory."

Atem shook Mahad's hand. "I had a worthy opponent," he said. "And if my score-keeping is correct, you're still a game ahead of me."

"Then we'd best take a break, or I'll soon lose my claim to that title!" Mahad said, leaning back and laughing.

"Yes, you're right," Atem said, standing and walking toward the window of the study where the servants had left a cask of wine and two cups for them. "A drink for you, my friend?"

"Please." Mahad rose as well, coming to stand beside Atem while he poured.

Atem handed one glass to Mahad and took the other, raising it to his friend. "To winning."

Mahad smiled and raised his glass in turn, prompting them both to take big swigs. Atem felt reinvigorated as the wine quenched his thirst. He hadn't noticed how parched he'd become while concentrating on his game. After taking another sip, he set his cup down on the windowsill and leaned against the cool stones, looking out at the sunny palace courtyard.

"I heard the Pharaoh went with your plan to invite the priests of Memphis to Thebes," Mahad said, and Atem turned his gaze to his friend. "It is a wise plan. You have a better eye for politics than your brother, it seems." Mahad looked as though he'd just spoken a curse. "Don't tell him I said that."

Atem laughed. "Your secret is safe with me, my friend," he said. "Though I do envy Tefnak his boldness. There's no denying that a military approach would have sent a stronger message."

"I disagree," Mahad said. It was Atem who was surprised now — as one of the Royal Spellcasters, Mahad was duty-bound to support his commander. "And so does Iset. I spoke with her last night — she said she received a vision of Metjen kneeling before the Pharaoh."

Atem felt a knot of pride forming in his throat. It wasn't often that Iset received such clear visions, let alone one involving a plan Atem himself had set in motion.

"I think you're destined to become a great diplomat," Mahad went on, and Atem felt his ears burn. As the second-born son of the Pharaoh, Atem had always known it would not be his fate to become Pharaoh. He had long ago resigned himself to following the same path as his older brother — to be possessor of the Millenium Ring and commander of the royal army. But while he enjoyed the art of spellcraft and the sport of dueling, Atem had never been fulfilled by the brutishness of combat in the way Tefnak was. Atem's joy came from strategy and cunning — in outsmarting his opponent and planning two, three, or even ten stages ahead.

Atem was pulled from his thoughts when Mahad lifted his glass again. "To diplomacy," he said, and Atem raised his cup to meet his friend's. After a short clink, Atem took another sip, and somehow the wine tasted sweeter than before.

The drink caught in his throat, however, when came the sudden sound of doors bursting open on their hinges. Coughing to divert the liquid from his lungs, Atem spun to see Tefnak himself striding into the study as if he'd been summoned by their conversation.

"Atem, Mahad — there you are!" he exclaimed. "I've been looking all over for you both!"

"What is it?" Mahad asked.

"News from Memphis," Tef said, sounding breathless as he strode within arm's reach of them. Atem's heart began to race when he saw Tef was holding a loosely-rolled scroll in one hand. "Well?" he prodded eagerly.

But in the midst of the sudden excitement, Atem had failed to see the grave look on Tef's face. He suddenly thrust the scroll out to Atem, who stared nervously at the crinkled parchment. "See for yourself."

Carefully, Atem reached out and unrolled the scroll, reading out loud for Mahad to hear: "'The Nomark of Ineb-Hedj respectfully declines the Great Pharaoh's royal invitation. Pridefully, the Conclave of Spellcasters are covetous of our holy mysticisms. If the Great Pharaoh wishes to acquire such knowledge, he is welcome to travel to Memphis to witness it first-hand.'"

Atem's eyes flew wide, his stunned gaze drifting from the papyrus, to Mahad, then to Tef.

"Pack your things, brothers," Tefnak said. "We sail for Memphis."