AN: Heya folks! I'm back after a bit of an unplanned hiatus — sorry about that. Things got a bit busy and stressful on the homefront, plus I was running into some troubles writing the setup to the next arc of the story. Thanks for being patient — as a special treat and thank you for your readership, I'm going to be posting two chapters today! :D
Small note on this chapter: I've slightly changed the physical design of the puzzle Satiah gave to Atem to better align with where the next arc is leading — which meant I had to tweak some previous chapters for continuity. Rest assured no major events have changed, but if you go back and read chapters 20, 22 or 26, you may notice slight changes to the narrative.
Without further ado… Read on! 3
Satiah felt strange finding herself once again in the Wedju Shrines, this time without fear or dread weighing heavy in her heart. Atem had asked her to oversee the curation of his own Shrine — which, until the night before, had belonged to his father. The Shrine was a monument to the Pharaoh's long and illustrious reign, its walls decorated with dozens upon dozens of spirits collected from all across the kingdom of Egypt. But now, it was being culled to make room for the new king's rising legacy.
Satiah was surprised when she'd awoken the morning after having her ka restored to find Atem dressing himself in pensive silence. She still remembered the anguished tone with which he'd asked her to supervise the gleaning of his father's estate. In truth, her first instinct had been to deny the task — it still grated her nerves to walk in the shadows of so many imprisoned spirits. But she felt as if she owed this to her husband — to help him purge the last whispers of his father's tainted dynasty, and lay the groundwork for what was to come.
And so, with a delicate hand, she'd set to work cataloging the Pharaoh's library of tablets, deciding which ones would remain, and which should be removed, hauled off and buried alongside the former king. She worked closely with Shimon and a collection of older priests of the conclave, who gave their accounting of each spirit's origin, and their assessment on its worth to the new Pharaoh's collection. To their credit, they were sensitive with their words and assessments, never disparaging a ka or its vessel. Still, by the time they were nearing the end of their work, Satiah's spirit had been worn nearly ragged from the labor of making so many weighty decisions.
As they came upon the fourth and final wall, Satiah found her eyes drawn instantly to the top of the altar at the back of the Shrine. A good deal of Aknamkanon's most trusted tablets had already been removed from the flat wall at the top of the stairs, leaving only his own slab and those of his family.
"We will need to adjust the layout so that his highness's tablet is at the center of the altar," Shimon mused, looking over the long, bouncing roll of papyrus in his hands. Suddenly, he glanced up at Satiah over the page, looking somewhat abashed. "That just leaves the positioning of your own slab, my queen."
Swallowing hard, Satiah looked back up at the wall above the altar, tracing her eyes over the recognizable carvings of the ka belonging to the king's father, brother and mother. She was having a hard time imagining her own slab hoisted up beside them, forever immortalized in the company of a family she had once cursed.
Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of a guard trotting up behind them. Satiah turned, grateful for the interruption.
"My queen," the guard said, bowing. "There is a visitor asking after you outside."
Satiah nodded her understanding and excused herself from the gaggle of old priests. She followed swiftly after the messenger into the open air, barely giving a thought to whom the visitor might be. Blinking back bright daylight, Satiah felt her anxiety return as her gaze fell upon her father, who was standing with his head turned up to the top of the Shrine behind her.
Satiah stopped short, causing her father's eyes to fall. Her heart lifted a bit when he smiled ever so slightly, drifting closer to her with meandering steps. As he did, Satiah saw that he was cradling a tightly rolled scroll up against his chest.
"Cleaning house, are we?" he said, somewhat flippantly.
Satiah pursed her lips, trying not to look defensive.
"I'm surprised he trusted you to do it," he went on. "If it were me, I would have turned every single tablet to dust by now."
"It's hard to look at them and see anything but stolen legacies," she admitted, looking back to watch the shadows of soldiers working within the Shrine. "But it's not that simple. Our lives are made up of so much more than just what we leave behind."
After a long moment, Satiah turned to her father again, surprised to see the evening sun illuminating a hint of pride on his features.
"You've changed so much," he said, moving even closer to her. "I want you to know that I don't begrudge you, Sati. Not for a moment." He lifted a hand and rested it on her shoulder. "I knew one day I'd have to say goodbye to my little girl. I just didn't think it'd come so soon." Satiah felt warmth flaring on her cheeks. "But I am glad that I now have my spirit to comfort me in your absence. It will never replace you, but nothing in this world ever could."
"I'm not going anywhere, Father," Satiah said, surprised by how urgent she sounded.
He blinked and dropped his hand. "Perhaps," he said, concealing his wistfulness with another twinkling smile. He lowered his eyes to his shoulder, then cleared his throat and extended the long scroll he held. "Here — the purpose of my visit today."
Satiah creased her brow and took the papyrus, unrolling one of the corners to see weathered hieroglyphs on the surface. "What is this?"
"One of the documents Aknadin brought from Memphis," he said. "It speaks of the line of Khufu, and their construction of the Great Pyramids — our first clue of value for the Pharaoh."
"Don't you want to deliver it to him yourself?" she asked.
"I can't," he said quickly. "Many more withering scrolls and dusty tomes in need of my eyes back at the temple."
Satiah gave him a reproachful look, but he simply smiled on.
"Goodbye, Sati," he said, leaning forward and kissing her cheek. "I'll be back if we find anything else of interest."
He bowed slightly as he backed away — a strange and deferential motion to which she had yet to become accustomed, and which she found strikingly unbefitting of her father. Turning, he melted into the shadows of the other Shrines, leaving Satiah feeling stone cold, even in the beating sun.
Atem sighed as he entered his bedchamber after what had been a long and arduous day at court. For the better part of the evening, he'd been forced to mediate a truly frivolous dispute between two landowners — one of whom insisted that the other had been encroaching on the property line of his farm by inches for the last six months. On any other day, Atem might have dismissed them both without another thought, but in truth, he was glad for the distraction from the larger issues at hand — most notably, the culling of his father's Shrine, and, of course, the ever-looming search to unlock the secrets of the Great Pyramids.
Every other governing issue seemed miniscule compared to this pursuit — the one his father had given his very life to preserve. Though the directive to secure the Holy Ka had been handed down by the very gods themselves, Atem was feeling utterly at a loss for where to turn next. He'd considered many times returning to the chamber beneath Kul Elna to ask the gods for guidance, but his heart always felt heavy at the thought. Would he be brave enough to stand in the shadow of his father's sins — and strong enough to resist the temptation to repeat them?
Atem exhaled deeply again as he crossed the room to his table, looking down at the nearly-complete puzzle on the surface. Whenever he found himself plagued with troublesome thoughts, fiddling with the pieces and mechanisms always seemed to settle his mind a bit. He knew he was close to solving it, but the object's purpose was still a mystery to him. He'd managed to piece together all eight of the hexagonal blocks into a single, cylindrical tower, with each block spinning freely along a vertical axis running through it. Atem noticed that the hexagons each turned in precise intervals, and they could be aligned so that their sides were flush together all the way down. This led him to wonder if perhaps it was meant to be some kind of timekeeping device or stylized abacus; however, each outward-facing plane was completely blank, leaving him utterly bewildered as to what the device might measure or count.
Lost in his musings, Atem almost didn't notice a presence entering the chamber behind him. He turned, delighted to see Satiah standing just inside the door. The first thing he noticed was the way the sunsetting light flickered off the crown of her head, and as he looked closer, he realized she was wearing the headdress he'd given her on their wedding night. His heart warmed with pride as he traced his eyes along the threads of gold framing her smiling face. In that moment, she looked truly like a queen — her authority and grace magnified by the glowing, golden halo.
"Already done for the day?" she lilted. "But there's still a sliver of daylight left."
Atem, breaking his gaze away from the headdress, cracked a smirk. "A Pharaoh ends the day when he wants to."
Satiah laughed wryly, meandering closer to him. As she did, Atem noticed she was carrying a large scroll beneath her arm. "Does that mean you've been trying to avoid me all these weeks?" She stopped before him and clicked her tongue. "I'm not sure how to feel about that."
Atem bit his lip to hide his growing smile. He knew better than to challenge Satiah to a banter of wits. Gently, he reached out and ran his fingers across the chains of the headdress hanging beside her cheek. "Well, you could always use your power as Queen to…overrule me." He began lowering his hand to her waist, but Satiah grabbed the scroll from under her arm and slapped it into his open palm.
"If you insist," she said. "I'm afraid your day isn't quite done yet."
Atem took the document and gave her a questioning look.
"A scroll from Memphis," she answered, "courtesy of my father."
Atem felt a flicker of anxiety returning to his stomach. "What does it say?"
"He didn't tell me," she said, shrugging. "Come. Read it to me while I change."
She swept by him and made for her vanity, where she removed her headdress and laid it gently in the box it came in. Smiling again, Atem untied the twine around the scroll and rolled it out across the last sliver of open space on his table. He traced his eyes along the faded glyphs and images, which depicted Khufu and his descendents overseeing the construction of their pyramids.
As Satiah grabbed her sleeping gown and disappeared behind the dressing screen, Atem pulled a chair up to his table, sitting back and clearing his throat.
"'In the third year of his reign, Khufu, the Father of Pharaohs, was visited by the Gods of Light. Through the glory of their words, Khufu was lifted up as the first Chosen Sovereign. In exchange for this blessing, the Gods charged Khufu with a centuries-long quest: to write their Holy Songs and pass them on to the future's Chosen Sovereign.
Khufu the Father was gifted with the ka of Ra, whose fiery Blaze spreads truth and grace across the lands of Egypt.
Khafra the Son was then graced by the virtue and wisdom of Osiris' ka, whose Thunder cleaves the heavens above.
As the last of this line, Menkaura the Grandson was blessed with the ka of Horus, whose mighty Hand judges evil and delivers righteous justice.'"
Atem paused, catching sight of Satiah emerging from the screen, smoothing the drapes of her gown around her body. She came to stand over his shoulder, peering down at the scroll as he continued reading.
"'To protect these Holy Songs, Father, Son, and Grandson built three Great Pyramids as eternal tombs for their patrons' spirits. The Gods of Light then sealed these tombs with their words, so that only the Chosen Sovereign would know of the secrets they left behind.'"
As he reached the end of the scroll, Atem sat back, bringing one hand up under his chin in contemplation. Satiah leaned to sit on the armrest of his chair.
"What a beautiful story," she said, reaching out to walk her fingers across the page. She stopped when she crossed the glyphs spelling out 'Chosen Sovereign' toward the bottom of the scroll. She bumped him with her shoulder and smiled. "This must be you."
Atem chuckled and wrapped his arm around her waist. "More than likely an epithet for any person with royal blood," he said skeptically. "But this is what really caught my eye." He traced his finger along the glyphs describing Khufu's 'centuries-long quest' — in its purest form, the arrangement of glyphs spelling 'centuries' could also be taken to mean 'millennium.'
Beside him, Satiah made a low noise of agreement. It was hard not to see it, between the fading glyphs — the multitude of not-so-hidden references to the Millennium Tome. All the threads of knowledge they'd gathered up to this point seemed to be leading back to the ancient spellbook, so Atem knew he shouldn't be surprised that this one did as well. It was becoming ever more apparent that the Tome would likely be a key to fulfilling the gods' decree, but like his father before him, Atem still had a healthy wariness of the object — a wariness which bordered on fear.
In his frustrated contemplation, Atem chewed so roughly on his lip he nearly drew blood. Satiah must have taken notice, as she quickly laid a hand on his arm, causing Atem to look up and catch sight of her wry smile. "Damn scribes," she said. "Turning every scroll into a flowery poem. Why can't they just write in certain terms for once?"
Atem forced a short laugh, then turned his eyes back to the table, but Satiah refused to let his attention settle — she stood and placed both of her hands on his shoulders, flexing her fingers into his tight tendons. Her touch caused Atem to release an unbidden sigh, his eyes falling closed. For several honeyed moments, she continued to massage his shoulders, and Atem felt his tension slowly beginning to melt away.
"Come," she whispered. "I'm tired. Lie with me."
When she took her hands away, Atem opened his eyes again to watch her backing toward the bed. She smiled as she lowered herself to the edge, then patted the empty space beside her.
Atem wished he could return her smile, but his thoughts soon began to wander again, pulled back toward the scroll over his shoulder.
"I can't," he heard himself say. "I almost forgot — there's something that still needs my attention."
Satiah's face fell, and Atem felt his heart thrashing against his ribcage with guilt. He could tell just in the subtle way her head tilted that she knew he was being untruthful. He pushed himself up and came to stand over her, casting her body in shadow. She kept her eyes downturned, locked on the Pendant around his neck, until Atem lifted his hand and brushed his thumb across her cheek. Her eyes flashed up at this, but the only warmth left in them was a reflection of the dusky sky.
Heavy with remorse, Atem bent and kissed her, still stroking her cheek as if that might reaffirm her trust. "Let's sleep in tomorrow," he suggested. "Breakfast in bed. Just the two of us."
Her lips flickered into a tortured smile as he drew away, and Atem forced himself to turn around lest he lose his nerve and fall back into her waiting embrace. Without so much as a goodbye, he stalked across the bedchamber and pushed out into the corridor beyond.
Easing the door close behind him, Atem swept onward through the darkening halls, nodding wordlessly to the guards he passed and trying his best to seem composed. But beneath the surface, his thoughts were wheeling again, growing ever more tumultuous the closer he drew to his destination. He circled down a winding staircase, sinking deeper even than the dungeons, until the steps leveled out into a close, dank antechamber, lit with only one torch. Squinting through the darkness, Atem spied the shape of a large metal door on the wall opposite him. He distinctly remembered cowering behind his father's robes the last time he'd looked upon this door, flinching at the sounds of its immense locking mechanism cranking open.
"Here to visit the Tome, my king?"
Atem spun, his wide eyes greeted with a hooded figure standing just inside the entryway behind him. The figure moved into the torchlight, and Atem's heart settled, if only slightly, to see it was Gelbeck, the dungeonmaster. A short man of sixty or so, Gelbeck had a wide face and sunken eyes, and his squat body was, at all times, dressed in black robes.
Atem cleared his throat and straightened his posture. "I am," he said, concealing his disquiet as best he could.
Gelbeck moved closer and smiled. His heavily lidded eyes glinted like scarab beetles in the weak light, his teeth flashing out from between his bulbous cheeks. "So late?" he asked. "And without your wise counselors?"
Atem drew himself up even taller. "I am capable of tending to such matters on my own," he said firmly. "Do you still hold the key for this door or not?"
Gelbeck lowered his head in deference. "Of course," he said. "I meant no offense, Pharaoh. I only wished to express my…surprise. Your father never showed much interest in the Tome, after all." His head still lowered, Gelbeck reached beneath his robe to retrieve a huge ring of keys, then ambled by Atem on his way to the door. Atem followed close, watching as the dungeonmaster deftly sifted through his keys and pulled up the one that matched the lock in the center of the door. Inserting the key, he gave a quick flick of his wrist, filling the chamber with the familiar sound of the lock releasing.
Atem kept his eyes angled up as the door swung open, revealing a small, square chamber, lit not with torches, but rather a long ray of moonlight pouring in from a tiny shaft in the ceiling. The pillar of silver light splashed over a pedestal in the center of the room, upon which sat the weathered Millennium Tome of legend.
"You are dismissed, Dungeonmaster," he said, without looking at Gelbeck. "I will fetch you when I'm finished."
Gelbeck's keys jangled as he bowed, his footsteps receding through the antechamber and up the stairs again.
In the silence that followed, Atem stared, unblinking, at the Tome. The shaft above it whistled with wind coming from the surface, some hundreds of feet overhead. The sound beckoned him closer, as if it might hold the answers to the questions hanging heavy in his mind. But as he stood over the withering spellbook, he felt nothing. Not a whisper of darkness, nor the warmth of light. Just quiet, empty stillness.
The Tome was smaller than Atem remembered, its unassuming leather cover accentuated here and there with flecks of gold leaf, many of which were peeling from years of neglect. Though legend said many had tried to destroy the Tome over the years, it looked to Atem as if time itself might finish the job at any moment. It seemed odd to even think such a small, fragile object could ever hold the power of the gods.
The wind moaned overhead again, and Atem felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, causing him to turn. A familiar shape stepped through the dark doorway, tall and stately, and for a moment, Atem thought the spirit of his father had clawed its way back to the plane of the living. But the moonlight soon illuminated a glint of gold, set in along the shadows of Aknadin's serious face.
"I apologize, my king," the priest said, lowering his head slightly. "I did not mean to startle you."
Atem relaxed, though he found himself still a bit piqued on the inside. "It's fine," he said tersely. "What brings you here at this late hour?"
"I must confess, I wish to beg the same question," Aknadin replied.
Atem felt his lips pinch downward, so he turned his head back toward the Tome to hide his chagrin. "I have reason to believe the Millennium Tome may hold a spell needed to secure the Holy Ka."
Aknadin made a low noise and stepped closer. "A wise theory, my king," he said. "I do admit I had the same thought. The Tome has long since proven itself a vessel of powerful magic."
Atem watched as the priest's human eye studied the cover of the Tome eagerly. "Powerful," Atem confirmed. "And dangerous."
The Guardian looked back at Atem and forced a smile. "Yes, of course," he said. "One must give the might of the gods its due respect. I simply find it…unfortunate that mankind lost its ability to comprehend their holy words."
Aknadin's words echoed hollow in Atem's ears, bringing dark thoughts to the surface again. If the gods were truly all-powerful and all-knowing, why would they see fit to trust men with their divine power in the first place? Men, whose nature was fickle and prone to corruption? Perhaps mankind had never truly lost their ability to read the words within the Tome, Atem mused — but rather had it scornfully revoked by the masters who once bequeathed it to them.
Aknadin cleared his throat and folded his hands behind his back. "Would you like me to have the scribes begin translation efforts, my king?"
Atem shook his head. "I'm not sure about that yet," he said. "I don't think we have seven years to spare on such an effort. I'm not even sure we have seven weeks."
Aknadin hummed his agreement. "It's a shame your father had all the translational records destroyed after the war ended. They could have been of great use to us now."
Atem snapped his eyes to the Guardian, staring in disbelief. "Is that true?"
"Yes, I'm sorry to say," Aknadin replied, in a somewhat morose tone. "Your father had a…complicated relationship with the Tome. As Pharaoh, he knew it was his duty to care for such a holy relic. But I fear he never felt truly worthy of its blessings. Especially considering the way it came into his possession — by mere happenstance."
Atem felt his stomach twisting with shame and anger — for his father, and for himself. If it was true even his father was unworthy of the gods' will — despite all his struggles and repentance — how could Atem ever find the strength to shoulder such a burden?
Behind him, Aknadin sighed. "Indeed, I believe the last Pharaoh who could truly call himself steward of the Tome was Ramesses himself. But alas, the Great King took all his wisdom with him to the afterlife."
Aknadin paused, and while Atem did see a hint of sorrow in the priest's posture, it was contradicted by the hunger in his eyes as he stared down at the Tome.
"I wish I had been there, when your father was called home to the heavens himself," Aknadin said quietly. "What I would have given to be able to ease his guilty conscience, if even just a bit."
The words lashed harshly across Atem's heart, causing him to surge forward and snatch up the Tome. When he turned around, the priest was staring in shock.
"Thank you for your wise counsel, Aknadin," Atem said shortly. "We shall speak more tomorrow at court."
Without another word, Atem brushed by him, stalking back through the palace with the Tome beneath his arm.