Chapter Five: The Threads Tangle

They were playing the drums again. It was far too early for that. There was no emergency – there should be no emergency. Their best warriors, along with a group of warrior-priestesses from Sakhmet's temple and a troop of elite Horus [1] Mdjai [2] managed to beat off the Umbarians from the town of Ahzel-Therman, on the West Bank of the River Eshe [3]. That had sent a clear message to the Umbarians that the Lisimba [4] Tribe – indeed, the rest of Khemet – would not allow themselves to be trampled into the sands without a fight.

And when the pain hit her, she realized that what she was hearing wasn't the war drums at all. It was her head, throbbing excruciatingly.

She groaned, and turned over, burying her face into the pillow. This was wrong, she told herself, and completely unfair. That was the last time she was ever going to touch Elder Sudi's beer. It was simply too strong for her to handle. It made her wonder sometimes, how Bomani and Thabit and all the rest of them managed to drink more than three mugs without slumping to the ground.

"Are you awake now?"

The voice was muffled when it came through her brain. It sounded like Senbi's voice. Well, that makes sense, she thought. If she had been ill because of drink, then she was probably in her tent, and Senbi would make her sit up and drink that foul-tasting brew of hers that she gave to all those who were drunk the night before. Without opening her eyes, she reached out, her hand searching for her father's staff that she always placed to the left of her pallet.

But her fingers grasped nothing but air.

She sat up instantly, her head pounding in protest as black and red spots swam in her vision. She groaned in pain, clapping her hand to her forehead, but it did nothing to ease the pain.

She felt a hand pressing against her shoulder, forcing her to lie back down. "Easy now," the voice told her, calm and soothing. "You are still weak. If you keep moving then the wounds in your shoulder might open up again."

Wounds? Memory came flashing back into her head: the tower in Umbar, the Archmage, her father's staff, the wyverns-

"Who are you?" she demanded as she tried to sit up, only to have firm hands come down on her shoulders and hold her down against the bed. She looked up, trying to see who was keeping her down, but she could not see beyond the red and black spots that still swam in her vision. A horrid feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. "Have I been drugged?"

"No," replied a voice that came from above and to the right. The stranger – a woman, from the sound of the voice – spoke Common Tongue quite fluently, but her accent was different. It didn't sound like the Common that the Khemetians spoke. "Whatever medicines we have used on you are solely to help you heal and to prevent infection."

She forced herself to focus on that voice, and she clung to it the way a thirsty man clings to his water bottle in the middle of the desert. If she had something to focus on, she knew that she'd be able to get herself out of this accursed daze sooner. "And who are you? Where am I?"

"We are friends, and you are in my cottage, on the borders between Rûmenyen and Khemet." This was a new voice, and it sounded masculine. The accent of this new speaker was similar to that of the first one, meaning that they were from the same country. Her forehead crinkled involuntarily in thought, which still did not come easily to her. Rûmenyen? She was in Rûmenyen? No, not entirely. On the border, that was what the voice said, on the border between Rûmenyen and Khemet.

Close to home, but not close enough. At least, she thought, I am out of Umbar.

The bed shifted beneath her as someone sat down on the edge of it. "Can you sit up?"

Could she? She did not quite trust her strength yet, to be truthful, but she did not wish to appear weak before these strangers. "Yes, I believe I can." Slowly, slowly, she sat up, pushing herself up onto her elbows first, and then forcing her torso forward so that she was sitting up. Though this was such an ordinary gesture to her, at the moment it was as if her body was made of granite, and it took such a great effort to just sit up.

A small cup of something hot was thrust into her hand. "Here, drink this," said the feminine voice that had spoken to her first. "It will ease the pain and clear your mind up a little."

Still feeling quite wary, she lifted the cup to her nose, and sniffed it. It was a tea made from boiled willow bark – the same thing that Senbi brewed for those who had headaches or backaches or some such thing. She sniffed the steam again, once, twice, just to make sure that nothing else had been mixed in with it, and then brought the cup down to her lips to take a sip. She grimaced at the bitterness of the concoction, but even as the hot liquid slid down her throat she could already feel the throbbing in her head beginning to lessen. Even the spots in front of her eyes were beginning to clear.

Gradually, her vision cleared, the pain lessened, and she was able to think coherently. But with coherent thought came caution, and wariness. She had no weapons with her, but she felt that she had just enough strength to cast a spell that would give her enough time to run away, should these so-called "friends" turn out to be something other than that.

She watched as a hand took the now-empty cup from her hands. She looked up, and was greeted by the face of a woman. She seemed quite young, though on her face the lines of care and worry were already beginning to form. Her hair was long and black, worn in a braid down her back. Her eyes were black as well, and had the distinct almond shape of the Rûmenyans.

The woman smiled slightly at her as she carefully slid the cup out of her hands. "Are you still in pain?"

She shook her head slowly, carefully, so as to make sure that she didn't send the world spinning again. "No, not so much." Her eyes narrowed then. "Who are you?"

The woman stood, and bowed in Rûmenyan warrior-style: bringing her hands up to her chest, her right hand became a fist, while her left remained open. As she bowed from the waist, she lightly punched her fist against her open palm, which closed around her fist, while the contact produced a soft smack. "I am Wei Ting Kuoh, a Swordhand of Rûmenyen. Please, address me simply as Wei." She straightened up, and gazed at her steadily. "And what is your name?"

"I am Anna Nefertari, of Khemet, but you may call me Anna," she replied quietly, lowering her eyes slightly in the poor mimic a bow. Good manners dictated that she should imitate the greeting just offered to her, but she could not. She was too afraid that if she bowed, the blood would come rushing to her head and the end the respite she had from the pain.

Wei nodded slowly, solemnly. "I see." She nodded to the other person behind her – the male, Anna speculated. "Shall you introduce yourself now? It is only proper."

The man stepped forward, revealing his face to Anna. He was a rather handsome fellow, if a little old. He was quite tall for a Rûmenyan, and from the way he carried himself he seemed to be a warrior, just as Wei was. His face, however, showed that he was older, and she sensed something that seemed vaguely like tired resignation in him. And, unlike Wei, who had black hair and onyx eyes, this fellow had blonde hair and green eyes.

It was then that Anna remembered. This man was one of the Doran, the legendary Horsemasters of Rûmenyen.

The man bowed to her in the same way that Wei did, and he spoke, his voice soft and – it seemed to Anna at least – weary. "I welcome you to my humble home, Mistress Anna. I am Magtìr Teididh, a warrior. You may call me Magtìr."

"Then call me Anna." She lowered her gaze from his, and said, "I thank you for taking such good care of me, Master Magtìr. I would offer you the same courtesy if ever you should find yourself of need of it in my country."

Wei smiled slightly when she heard that comment from the young woman who was sitting in Magtìr's bed at that moment. She knew enough about Khemetian culture to know that she would have greeted them in the same manner that they had greeted her, but she suspected that Anna refused to bow her head for fear of making the pain come back. It was something she could easily relate to, being a warrior herself.

And, judging from the soft crackle of magic that surrounded Anna, she was a powerful mage as well. A Water mage, if Wei was not mistaken.

"I think it would be best if I went and got you something to eat," Wei said as she stood up. "I will go and get some of the stew."

She exited the room, heading for the kitchen. She picked up one of the bowls that lay near the washing basin, and filled it with a hefty serving of the stew that had been simmering in the pot over the small wood-fired stove nearby.

The bowl was half-filled when Magtìr came in. She sensed him pause a moment in the doorway, before walking towards one of the chairs at the table and sinking down into it.

Wei allowed a small smile to twist her face, though she did not show it to him. "Have you begun questioning her already?"

"Not yet," Magtìr replied. "I thought it better if she had something in her stomach first. Maybe that will make her more conducive to questioning."

"I did not expect to hear that from you, Magtìr. I had thought that you would be questioning her already. After all, was it not you who said before that it is always better to question a prisoner before feeding them? You said that it gave them less time to cover up and lie."

"That was long ago, in another place, another lifetime. Everything is different now. I am no longer that man."

"Well, perhaps you should be that man." Wei turned around, and faced Magtìr. Softening her voice, she said, "The Empire needs you now, more than ever. Rûmenyen needs you, Magtìr."

Magtìr scowled, his eyes darkening from spring-green to storm-jade. "I thought we had closed that topic last night. It does not need me. It is better off without me."

Wei felt her expression harden. How dare he! How dare he be so selfish! She stood in front of him, and gritted out four icy words: "You are a fool."

"I left because I saw what was wrong. I did as my conscience dictated." He turned his darkened eyes to her, and those viridian depths seemed to mock her. "But what about you, Wei? You remain there, even though you know, in the very depths of your soul, that it is wrong. Who is the greater fool between us, in that case: I, who has followed my conscience, or you, who blindly follows what is wrong for the sake of appearances?"

"I remain because I still know what honor means," Wei all but hissed, her grip on the bowl tightening.

"Is there honor to be found in pretending? Is there honor to be found in lying to yourself?"

"I believe that if I do what is honorable, I can change what has gone wrong!" She paused to collect her composure, before uttering a mirthless laugh. "Is there honor to be found in running away from your country? Do you think you have found it out here, in the wilds, meditating like a hermit? If you do, please be so kind as to inform me, and I will gladly take it back to where it should be. To where you should be."

Magtìr held her gaze a moment longer, and then turned away. Wei waited for him to speak, but when he made no indication of doing such a thing, she scowled, and walked to his room, where Anna was waiting.

Magtìr watched as Wei exited the kitchen, heading for his room. When she was out of earshot, he uttered the sigh he had been suppressing, and buried his head in his hands.

Was he being dishonorable? I have done nothing but follow my conscience, he thought defensively. I have only done what I believed was right at the time. I continue to do what I believe is right. That is the way of honor.

But was it the only honorable path? He knew that he would be lying if he said that it was. He could have stayed on, and he could have made a difference. He could have changed what was wrong.

He also knew that he was useless dead.

Was he a coward, then, for running away when his liege-lord needed him the most? He was once the Captain of the Guards of the Shield, dedicated chiefly to the defense of the Emperor. Honor dictated that he was supposed to stay by his Emperor's side, no matter what – even if it meant yielding his own life.

He had left because his mere presence was a threat to the Emperor's life. Yet in doing so, he had quite literally thrown his Emperor into the tigers' den.

He closed his eyes, memories of a rather painful nature running through his head.

Had he done what was right?

That was the question he had warred with the past five years he had been living out here in the wilderness. His conscience and his training clashed in his mind, raising a cacophony that he had struggled to suppress the last five years.

He pushed the chair back, and left the cottage, heading outside and for a wide, flat piece of rock that stood just by the water's edge. He sat down, cross-legged, on the rock, and rested his hands on his knees, closing his eyes as he focused his whole being on finding that place of quiet deep within his soul. He knew that if he could reach that place, the cacophony in his mind – along with all the hurtful memories – would subside.

Breathe in. Breathe out. He felt his entire body relax as the noises of the world began to fade away into the background.

Breathe in. Breathe out. He felt his heart slowing gradually, as did his breathing.

Breathe in. Breathe out. His limbs went limp, and he whispered a soft, relaxed sigh. He had reached the Quiet Place. And from that place, nothing could harm him, nothing could interrupt him, and he could find respite from his memories – and his guilt.

This was an escape, an escape from the inner turmoil of his soul.

But beyond, in the wide existence that continued beyond the little pocket he inhabited, the world spun closer and closer towards the deadly axis of chaos and darkness. And while he could not feel it, isolated as he was from it in his Quiet Place, there were others who could.

Her sandaled feet pattered rapidly down the Endless Hallway, her heart pounding in her chest as she struggled to inhale more air. She did not know how long she would have to run, but she knew that once the time was right, a sign would call to her and tell her to halt.

On either side of her, tall columns of carved and painted sandstone soared up to support a ceiling she could not see. The images and the glyphs on the columns swam like fish through water. When she looked, the images and the writing danced away from her view, or became so distorted that she could not read them anyway.

And then, off to her left, she saw it: a doorway. Knowing that this was the sign she had been waiting for, she veered off to the left, and ducked into the cool, dark space beyond the threshold.

She stopped when she was inside the chamber, and leaned forward, bracing her hands on her knees as she gulped deep drafts of air, as if she were drinking water after a hard day's training under the sun. After she had fully recovered, she raised her head to look around.

Torches that had been placed in sconces along the wall suddenly flamed to life, illuminating the room she was standing in. It was moderate in size, with the floor made of tiles of granite, but it was unlike any type of granite that she had ever encountered before: it was as black as fine onyx, but flecked with tiny sparkling pieces of quartz and pyrite. In the light of the torches, it seemed as if she was walking upon the night sky as it arched over the isolated reaches of the desert.

Her gaze shifted upwards to look upon the walls, and she could not suppress the gasp that escaped her lips. There were paintings upon the walls, beautiful and brightly colored, as if made by the most skilled of artists. Yet there was something about these paintings, something that she could not place, that told her they came not from human hands.

She approached the left-most wall, and gazed upon the mural. It showed a city majestic to behold, with mansions of white and gold, and high walls that shimmered silver in the light. There was a large palace upon a hill, she saw, and it rose above the protective walls so that it seemed to float above the walls and in the sky. Beyond the palace lay the deep, glimmering sea, where white-sailed ships crossed the waves with grace and beauty. And, surmounting the palace was a round, golden plaque, shaped like a sun with nine rays beaming from the center. In the middle of the sun was an elegant serpent, its body twisted and twining around in a complicated knot.

But even as she gazed upon the plaque, the gold seemed to dim as a dark, festering mold spread over it from the center. The mold spread over the surface of the gold to the rest of the painting, diminishing the beauty of the brilliant colors. And then, when the mold had spread over the entire mural, the picture suddenly crumbled to dust, as if it had not even been there.

A chill spread in her veins when she saw what had happened. But she did not have time to wonder, for her feet were suddenly moving her to the next mural.

This painting depicted a seaside village, quiet and peaceful. There were houses in the branches of the trees, she saw, and there were even houses in the shallow waters, built on platforms that were stilted above the softly flowing tides. Children and adults alike swam in the water, or mended nets and boats on the shore, while in another part of the painting divers rose up from the sea with pouches overflowing with precious pearls. Swimming amongst the divers and the swimmers were dolphins – graceful, cheerful creatures that were a rare sight in the stretch of ocean that was a part of Khemet's southern territory.

But then, fire seemed to suddenly spring up from the forest, consuming all in its path. The blue of the sea then ran red, and she did not know whether it was just a reflection of the fires or it was from blood. And when the bloodied water finally touched the shore, fine cracks ran through the painting, and it fragmented into small pieces, each piece shattering to dust the moment it hit the floor.

Again, a chill crept through her body, but once more her feet moved her, and there was nothing she could do.

Now she was standing in front of a painting that depicted Yaminah. The image brought a smile to her face. Everything about the city – its temples, the port, the palace, even the market, were portrayed in loving detail. Even the faintest hints of the Towers of Uadjit [5] were visible near the top-left portion of the painting. This was quite true; the towers were indeed visible on days when the air was especially clear, and not clogged with the dust and sand from the desert.

And then, a wind blew through the chamber, and it smelled foul, the way the air smelled when the wind blew the wrong way and wafted over the garbage pit that was dug a fair distance from the city. With the scent came a dark smudge over the painting, spreading from the left, towards the right. It covered the entire painting, until it seemed as if the wall was covered in a thick layer of soot.

She staggered backwards, unable to comprehend the meaning of such a sight. What was this? What were the gods trying to tell her?

The walls fell away then, and the darkness swallowed her up-

Mié Djeserit's eyes flew open, the dream she was having abruptly cut. She stared at the ceiling, disoriented for a moment, but then, when memory came back to her, she sighed, and closed her eyes a moment, rubbing them gently with her fingertips.

A dream of seeing, the first one she had had in a long while. And it was not as pleasant as she might have liked.

Then again, she thought, when were her visions ever pleasant, especially if they were with regards to the future? Amunet rarely ever brought good news, even to those who were held highest in her favor.

And this new dream of hers was hardly good news at all. Darkness overcoming nations – at least that was what the paintings seemed to her. First a mold spreading over gold, blood over water, and darkness over Yaminah… What did that mean?

She sighed. It was more confusing than would have liked. When Amunet did not speak plainly, it often meant something very important – and very dangerous.

She sat up from her pallet, and realized that she was soaked in sweat. She also realized that it was nearly dawn, and that it was just about time for her to begin training. Clambering out of bed, she removed her sweat-drenched nightclothes, put on dry practice clothes, and headed out of her room.

As she walked down the hallways, she could hear some of the people stirring in their beds, preparing to rise for another day in the Temple of Sakhmet [6]. This would not be an ordinary day for her, however. She would have to pay a visit later to the Temple of Amunet [7] and have her dream interpreted.

It was imperative that she did.

[1]= He is an ancient Egyptian god of the Sun.

[2]= Egyptian word that means, "soldier"

[3]= Egyptian word that means, "life"

[4]= Egyptian word that means, "lion"

[5]= The Towers of Uadjit are a pair of sandstone watchtowers that stand on the westernmost border of Khemet, so named because they are carved in the likeness of the cobra goddess Uadjit with four faces, each face pointed in the direction of the four cardinal directions. They guard the Lapis Bridge – the only bridge that crosses the River Eshe. Due to the hostilities with Umbar, Khemet's western neighbor, the Towers of Uadjit are considered a very crucial part of the defense against Umbar. There are always soldiers in the towers, to guard the bridge and make sure that Umbar – and other invaders that come from the west – do not use it as a means of getting across the Eshe and into Khemetian territory.

[6]= This is the name of the chief residence of the warrior-priestesses of Sakhmet, and where her devotees come to worship and ask for blessings. It is located on the eastern side of the city of Yaminah, and is famed for the sandstone pillars on the outside, which are carved in the likeness of the lioness-headed goddess of war.

[7]= This is a place that houses many of those who have the gift of Seeing. Amunet is the protector of those who have the ability to glimpse into the future, and it is she who gives out the gift to whomever she favors. Many people come to her temple to have their dreams interpreted, or to have their futures told.