Set and Kisara left the dense vegetation by the riverbank behind, risking a nearby footpath for the sake of faster travel. Neither of them spoke as they walked along the dusty trail. Other nocturnal creatures did: amidst the harmonic vocalizations of insects and frogs, far-off desert foxes yapped every so often, while owls called to each other in low, scratchy hoots. Set listened intently for any signs of pursuit, but the only footsteps he could detect were their own. He nearly jumped when Kisara spoke up suddenly.
"How is your head feeling?"
"It still aches," Set admitted, "but not as sharply as it did."
"That seems like a good sign." She did not ask about the state of his vision, likely because Set couldn't have discerned any changes in the black of night anyway. "Please let me know if you start feeling worse."
"What could you do if I did?" asked Set, unable to keep a note of scorn from his voice. The evening's events hadn't shaken the priest to the point of abandoning his chief coping mechanism, though he now felt vaguely guilty for indulging it at Kisara's expense.
"Find a place where you can rest, I suppose," replied Kisara easily.
Either the girl simply did not understand Set's brand of mockery, or it didn't affect her the way it did the courtiers on whom Set usually honed his sardonic edge. Set supposed that compared with getting spat on or chased with sticks, a snide remark would scarcely register as an offense. However, being sensitive to all manner of slights himself, Set found Kisara's obliviousness strange in the extreme. So much about the girl was odd if not inexplicable, and here he was, allowing her to lead him to an uncertain destination. He hadn't even thought to ask her...
"We're heading towards the capitol?"
"Yes." Her voice betrayed no deception, but Set only grew more apprehensive. Awareness of his essential vulnerability rose in his mind like bile up his throat.
How would you be able to tell if she was lying? a suspicious voice inside him wondered. You cannot see and you have no idea where you are. For all you know, she could be leading you out to the desert wastelands, or into the hands of more bandits. How much do you truly know about her? What is her stake in all of this?
Doubt hooking him like an unfortunate fish, the priest halted.
"Lord Set, what's wrong? Is it your wound?" Kisara's free hand brushed against Set's hair as if to check his bandages, but Set intercepted it before she could touch him in earnest.
"You didn't steal it," he said.
"What?"
"The Millennium Rod." Set released her in order to gesture at the object in question. "You didn't take it from me. Why not?"
Surprised, she paused before replying, "It was obviously dear to you-you held onto it so tightly even in sleep. You only dropped it when I jostled you as I dragged you from the river. I'm sorry about that, by the way; you were heavy..."
"Damn your apology!" barked Set. The woman failed to startle at his harsh cry, which somehow irritated him more. "You could have sold the Rod for all the gold in the Pharaoh's treasury!"
"Oh."
"Is that all you have to say, 'oh'?"
"How much bread could all the gold in the Pharaoh's treasury buy?"
"How much br-are you serious?" Kisara did not answer, but when Set realized that she was, he said, "Enough to feed you for the rest of your life, and your children for the rest of their lives, too."
"I have no children."
"That's not the point!" yelled Set. He had managed to ignore the sheer improbability of his rescuer until now, but he could no longer take refuge in willful ignorance. In Set's experience, people simply did not behave as Kisara did: people were selfish and cruel and cowardly, especially towards those they barely knew. The girl's determined kindness made no sense. She made no sense. "Why didn't you steal the Rod, or the gold bands on my arms, or even my dagger? Why did you help me when you could have more easily passed me by?" The more mysteries Set named, the more occurred to him. "Why did you put yourself between me and that miserable thief? And how in the name of all the gods do you know my name? I never told you it!"
"You did."
Her matter-of-fact response brought Set up short. "What?"
"You told me your name. It was a while ago, though. I'm not surprised you don't remember."
"What are you talking about?"
Ever-patient, Kisara asked, "Are you not the Set who, on the night your village burned, helped a girl you did not know escape slave traders? You gave me your name then."
Set's powers of reason deserted him entirely. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, dumbstruck.
"You could have passed me by, but you unlocked my cage instead. You defended me from the slavers and gave me your own horse so that I could ride to freedom."
As she spoke, Set beheld in his mind's eye an unnaturally pale girl huddled in one corner of a barred oxcart. He remembered her desperate grip around his torso as they'd fled the bandit camp on horseback. He had felt strong and brave as he'd ridden away with her, Set recalled. Like a hero out of legend.
"After we parted, I rode all night. I fell asleep riding, but somehow your horse still managed to bring me to the town you'd mentioned," she continued. "I searched for you there because I thought it must be where you lived. I wanted to return your horse and thank you properly. But the townspeople told me that the only boy named Set they knew lived in the next village over, which had been attacked by bandits the night I escaped. They said all the villagers had died in the fighting and the fires. I went looking for you in the wreckage, but I couldn't find you. I thought you had been killed as well." Her voice trembled with emotion. "I should have had more faith that the gods would spare you."
"Not the gods," said Set.
"What?"
"The gods didn't save me. Or at least, no god that's worshipped in a temple." Set had never told anyone, not even Lord Akhnadin, about the white dragon that had defended him from the bandits, destroying them what little remained of his village in the process. The priest had half-convinced himself he'd imagined the creature; he wasn't sure why he felt a need to speak of it now. "...It scarcely matters," he backtracked.
Kisara did not press him for further details. "I know you must hate me," she said at length. "There's no way I can ever repay the debt I owe you, but when I found you in the river, I thought, 'Here is my chance to try, at least.' I didn't intend to deceive you. I only thought you might reject my help if you knew who I was."
Set took a moment to catch up with her logic. "You think it's your fault the bandits attacked?"
"You saved me, and your home burned for it," she replied simply. "I blame myself. You must blame me, too."
A breathy wobble in her last few words warned of Set impending tears. Panic struck him when he heard it. The priest wasn't good with crying women at the best of times; memories of his mother weeping when she thought her son couldn't see or hear her featured heavily in some of his worst nightmares. The prospect of Kisara crying inspired a similar sense of helpless dread in Set. It led him to drop his bundle of jewelry, the cup, and the daggers he'd been carrying in order to grip her shoulders with both hands.
"Listen to me," he said. He barely refrained from shaking Kisara, not out of meanness, but out of a profound desperation to stop the weeping before it began. "Sometimes I regret that I went out riding the night I found you, but that's because I'd fought with my mother right before I left. Sometimes I regret that I gave you my horse, but that's because if I had taken you home with me instead, I might have arrived at my village in time to save my mother. But freeing you, helping you-I've never regretted that. If anyone living bears responsibility for what those slavers did, it's mefor not killing as many of them as I could before they could destroy my home."
"You were a child," Kisara whispered. "There was nothing you could have done to stop them."
"If you believe that about me, then believe it about yourself as well. And if you can't believe it... just know that I don't hate you. I never have."
Set's vehement honesty backfired: Kisara's shoulders began to tremble, and she sniffled, indicating that he had only hurried the tears along.
"Stop. Stop crying," the priest ordered desperately. The girl broke from his hold to turn away; Set reached after her, but his fingers grasped only air. "Kisara..."
"I'm sorry, Lord Set. It's all right. I'm not sad." Kisara spent a few moments getting her bearings, breathing deeply and wiping at her eyes and cheeks. When she spoke again, her voice sounded steadier. "I'm only glad you don't hate me."
Set nodded a mute affirmation, though he had no idea if she could see him. It was strange, now that he thought about it: he'd never experienced any difficulty hating people, often for worse reasons than he would have had to hate Kisara, but no anger or resentment colored his perception of her.
"Even if you did hate me, I think I would still feel glad," continued Kisara, half to herself. "You saved me. Believing that the gods had rewarded your kindness with death was almost more than I could bear. But you're alive." Set heard her turn to face him once more. "I am sorry about your mother."
Her genuine sympathy threatened to wake the old, familiar grief that hovered at the edges of Set's conscious mind. He mastered the sadness with effort, binding it in his heart like a sailor securing the rigging of a storm-lashed ship. "It was a long time ago," he replied. He knew the words were stilted and insufficient, but he had no better ones to offer.
They lapsed into a slightly awkward silence after that. Kisara hiccuped softly as she gathered herself. Set broke first, clearing his throat and blurting, "We should keep going if you feel fit to travel."
"Oh-yes," agreed the girl. "Just a moment."
She shifted closer to Set-picking up the things he'd dropped, the priest realized. He attempted to help by reaching down towards where he thought one of the items had fallen, but his hand brushed Kisara's head by mistake. Her hair flowed like water or silk under his fingers, and Set jerked his hand back as if burnt.
"Forgive me," he said stiffly.
Kisara made no sign she had noticed the faux pas. She returned Set's belongings and, as he tucked them under one arm, she reclaimed his free hand in order to guide him.
They set off once more. Set readily lost himself in the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other. He had no energy to reflect on memories or revelations; only the chill of the night and the sound of his and Kisara's breathing commanded his attention. They travelled on the footpath until they reached a low hill. On the other side of it stretched a wider road capable of admitting carts or livestock. Unlike the footpath, the road did not run exactly parallel to the Black River, but the country it crossed seemed more open. There was room here for breezes to blow, carrying with them the pungent, marshy scent of river mud. Breathing in deeply as they walked, Set thought he could detect traces of animal manure as well.
Kisara confirmed his suspicions: "We're nearing the first farms that surround the great city."
"Have you ever been to the capitol before?" Set asked.
"Once or twice, but never via the main roads. I usually approach from the desert side."
"What? Why?"
"When I've tried to use the city gates in the past, either the guards will not admit me, or folks take notice of me and grow upset that I am there. I cause less trouble if I sneak in."
"Hmph. Well, we will go through the main gate," Set declared. He would enjoy sinking his proverbial teeth into any guard stupid enough to try and stop him. "The capitol is far enough from here without adding a trek through the damned desert."
The priest made the last observation with more weariness than he'd intended to show. Since he and Kisara were approaching the capitol from upstream of the Black River, the furthest contiguous farms would be at least an hour's horseback ride from the city gates. The fatigue that Set had been suppressing all night increased tenfold at the idea of walking that distance. His desire for respite rankled his pride: a priest raised in the palace like Mahaad or in temples like Isis or Shadaa might have already yielded to the sheer physical tiredness Set felt, but the first lesson commoners learned was how to sublimate discomfort. Set had thought he'd internalized that lesson better than most, but Kisara was proving the more advanced student, travelling uncomplainingly and unfalteringly despite being shorter and physically weaker than Set. The priest could no longer ignore the possibility that he might have to be the one to request a break. Palace life had made him soft.
His pride was saved, however, when Kisara suggested hesitantly, "Lord Set, since it doesn't seem those thieves are following us, perhaps we should find a place to rest. The city gates won't open until dawn, anyhow."
Set pretended to consider it, though not for very long. "I suppose," he replied. "I have plenty of gold to trade for a night's room and board. We'll convince some farmers to let us stay with them."
"Sleeping inside would be nice," agreed Kisara with a shy eagerness that made Set's chest twinge.
They walked a little further until Kisara spotted a farmhouse, at which point they turned off the main road and approached it. Set knocked on the gate to the home's front courtyard, calling out to the denizens of the house beyond, but nobody responded. Their reticence didn't exactly surprise Set; accidents or natural disasters notwithstanding, few good reasons existed for peasants to open their doors to strangers at night. His patience thinned, however, as he and Kisara received the same treatment at the next house, and the next, and the next.
"This time, if no one answers, I'm yelling 'fire,'" the priest muttered as they made their way to the fourth home off the main road. "How does this house look?"
"Older and smaller than the others. The walls around the courtyard are crumbling, and the gate looks broken."
"Good. The owners may be desperate enough to help us." Set rapped on the broken gate, then cried, "Hello! We require aid! Open up if you can hear!"
"Please," murmured Kisara.
"What?"
"I-I thought, perhaps if we said 'please' this time..."
Set rolled his sightless eyes, but called, "Please come to your door and speak to us. We mean you no harm! Heed us and-!"
Kisara touched his elbow excitedly. "Someone's coming out the doorway!" She paused, then reported, "It's an old woman."
To his surprise, Set discerned a lamplight growing brighter as the old woman crossed the courtyard. Not wanting to startle the stranger, Kisara hid behind Set; her closeness almost made Set miss the sound of the gate creaking open, but he snapped out of it as the old woman raised her light up higher, presumably to get a better look at his face.
"Madam," Set began carefully, "my companion and I-"
An alarmed squeak from Kisara provided his only warning before a bony, sour-smelling bundle of linen enveloped the priest's middle in a fierce hug. The old woman's oil lamp fell forgotten to the ground. A small fire leapt up where it spilled; Kisara darted out from behind Set to kick dirt over the flames.
"Pentu! Pentu, my son! You've returned!" cried the old woman, heedless of the chaos she'd caused. "I knew you would come home to me one day! They told me you were dead, but I never lost hope, and the gods have answered my prayers at last. Oh, Pentu, my beautiful boy!"
"Kisara!" yelped Set, throwing his arms out in an undignified manner to prevent from toppling over backwards with the little old woman still cleaved to him. "Get her off me!"
"I don't wish to frighten her..." Kisara hedged as she finished smothering the oil fire.
"She's frightening me! Let go, old woman!"
Set's assailant paid him no mind, crying, "I've missed you so much, Pentu! I was terribly worried!"
The priest dredged up all the calm he could muster, pushing at the crone's shoulders in an attempt to dislodge her. "You have mistaken me. My name is Set, not Pentu. I am a stranger to you."
The old woman finally let go of Set, though she did not back away from him. Set felt a stab of revulsion; the front of her linen gown had felt greasy against his bare torso, and up close, her breath smelled of tooth decay.
"Don't be ridiculous! How can you say such a thing to your poor mother after so long? After I thought the invaders had killed you!" cried the old woman.
Invaders? But foreign armies haven't threatened Kemet since Akhenamkanon's time, thought Set. Clearly the woman was senile or insane.
"I am not who you think," he protested, but a gnarled, arthritic hand clutched at his wrist, cutting him off before he could say more.
"Pentu, you must remember me," exhorted the old woman. "I am your mother! You must!"
The last of Set's patience evaporated under a flash of white-hot indignation. He yanked his arm away from her.
"I must do nothing. You are no mother of mine!" he shouted.
In the silence that descended afterwards, Set knew he had made a mistake. The old woman confirmed it with a high, thin wail that quickly bloomed into full-on weeping. She collapsed to the ground, wracked with sobs she made no effort to suppress or modulate: her cries rang through the night like the loudest, ugliest birdsong Set had ever heard. Unable to tolerate it, the priest whirled and marched back down the trail towards the main road. The hag's snivelling followed him, though the roar of blood in his ears did a good job of drowning it out.
Ra and Horus, deliver me from crying women! he seethed. No sooner had he finished the prayer than his slippered foot caught on a rock. He stumbled and only just managed to catch his balance, swearing in a manner thoroughly unbefitting of a high priest, or indeed anyone who had just invoked the gods. His indignation gave way to unease as he realized he could not make it far without Kisara for guidance. He paused, listening for the footfalls he'd grown familiar with over the course of the night. Kisara joined him after a long minute of quiet, during which Set almost-almost-worried.
"What a farce," Set commented by way of greeting as the girl came to a stop beside him. "Ridiculous. We'll go back to one of the other places..."
"Lord Set," Kisara interrupted.
Her tone was outwardly neutral, but Set detected a thread of censure woven into the tapestry of those two words. It stopped him short. He had never heard Kisara pass judgment on someone. When she'd spoken about her own mistreatment, she had sounded tired or regretful at worst; nothing in her voice had hinted at indignation or the idea that things should be any different. Even now Kisara's admonishment was subtle, barely more forceful than a mother intercepting an infant's hand before the child grasped something forbidden, but its mere presence inspired some embarrassment from Set.
"I don't like lies or self-delusion. Enabling that woman's fantasy will not improve her circumstances," he protested.
"What else does she have besides fantasy? Poverty, failing health, and an old, empty house; a kind lie would not hurt her circumstances, either."
Set frowned. He hadn't thought of it that way.
"I understand why you said what you did," Kisara went on. "Your own mother was important to you, and that old woman frightened you. People react poorly when they're surprised or afraid. But you are a kind and intelligent person, so I know you could have treated her with more care."
Given the effort Set put into placing himself above the petty, ignorant masses, realizing he had acted in a petty and ignorant manner stung. Somehow, though, Kisara saying that Set could have been kinder affected him just as deeply, if not more so, than the idea that Set counted as "people," or even the implication that he'd been genuinely afraid of a little old hag.
You barely care how your own allies perceive you; why should you care so much about what she thinks? asked the same voice in Set's mind that had doubted Kisara's motives before he had learned her identity.
The answer occurred to the priest almost before the question finished taking shape: Because, he told himself, she is the only person alive who remembers the boy I used to be. Everyone at court knows what I was: a commoner, a dirt-eating peasant. But only Kisara remembers who I was.
And the boy Set had been would have felt nothing but shame at making an old woman cry.
"That was unworthy of me," Set admitted with enormous effort. Every word taxed his pride. Kisara did not antagonize him further by agreeing, which he appreciated. After a moment's consideration, he wondered haltingly, "If we went back, it would only cause her worse pain, yes? There's no way I could-somehow...?"
Kisara took his hand. "It's worth a try," she said.
The old woman was still crying softly outside the courtyard gate when Set and Kisara returned. Set followed Kisara down as the girl knelt on the ground in front of the old woman.
"Madam, this man is blind. Lift your head. See for yourself," she said.
The weeping continued, but after Kisara repeated her encouragement, the timbre of the old woman's sobs changed; Set assumed she was indeed peering closer at him through her tears.
"It has been many years since you two last spoke, and he cannot see, so he did not know you," continued Kisara. "But do you know him?"
The crone's wrinkled fingers touched Set's face. Set did not jump or pull away.
"He is Pentu. He is my son," the strange woman burbled.
Kisara squeezed Set's hand encouragingly. The priest cleared his throat. He forced out, "I am sorry for my harshness earlier, mother. Please accept me again."
As he spoke, he sent a prayer to his real mother's soul: Forgive my deceit, and know that I would have no mother but you. He could not imagine his mother taking offense at the charade, however. Like Kisara, she would probably prefer that Set act in the name of kindness over truth.
His mother would have liked Kisara very much, Set realized.
He felt almost relieved when the crone embraced him, reclaiming Set's attention before grief could escape its bonds within him. Now the old lady wept mostly happy tears, though "Pentu's" injury distressed her:
"Those wicked barbarians, blinding my poor boy! No wonder it took you so long to find your way back to me! Well, never fear. We will manage somehow. Come inside, Pentu, come!"
She led Set through the gate and across the dusty courtyard. Covered by a hanging reed mat, the house's doorway began a couple feet up from the ground in order to help keep out dirt and pests. The old woman guided him over the entrance's lip with surprising care, Kisara following close behind.
The house's mud-brick walls, having spent all day absorbing the sun's heat, radiated warmth into the interior by night. Set perceived a general brightening of the space when the old woman built up the fire in the hearth. He could also distinguish the woman's vague outline as she straightened up from kindling it.
"Sit here! You look exhausted." She dragged Set over to a three-legged stool near the fire. Set lowered himself onto it with minimal protest, placing his jewelry, Rod, and cup on the floor beside him. "I will fetch you something to eat."
"May I help you at all, madam?" asked Kisara.
The crone let out a little yelp of shock. Apparently she had been too wrapped up in her prodigal son to truly register Kisara's presence until that point. It said something about Set's overtired state that he almost laughed as the old woman scuttled back like a wary spider.
"What are you?" demanded the old woman of the girl. "Some kind of wicked spirit?"
"I am a person," stated Kisara simply. Something about her tone of voice gave Set the impression that she needed to make that assertion on a regular basis. His amusement at the situation guttered and died, and he broke in,
"She is a true and loyal friend, Mother. She guided me home to you."
"No, my boy, no! You cannot see her; you do not realize she is cursed! Get thee away from here, demon!" The old woman spat on the ground as a ward against evil; it reminded Set of Intef spitting in Kisara's face, and his temper flared.
"She is not a demon!" he cried.
"It's all right, Lord Se... um, Pentu. I can go outside," Kisara reassured him.
Set recalled the wistful manner in which the girl had anticipated sleeping with a roof over her head. "No. Unacceptable. Mother, she is strangely colored, I know, but I promise you, the girl is entirely human."
The old lady hesitated. "Even if she is not a spirit or a demon, I cannot allow a stranger to sleep in my home," she said slowly.
You already are! Set wanted to yell. Instead he blurted, "Kisara is not a stranger. She is my wife."
"What?!" squawked the old woman.
What?! squawked Set's better judgment.
Kisara said nothing at all, though Set could practically feel her shock.
"So you see, Mother, if you send her away, I must go as well," he concluded, shunting his own embarrassment off to the side.
Quiet reigned for a few long seconds after he'd spoken. Set braced himself for another emotional outburst, but to his surprise, the old woman simply crossed the room and rummaged amongst a collection of clay jars and dishes lining the far wall. Set heard the sound of a lid opening and closing again. When the old woman returned to him, she placed a bowl of what smelled like beer-porridge in his lap.
"Eat, Pentu," she encouraged cheerfully enough. "I will make up a cot for you and your wife."
Huh! mused Set as the old woman bustled off to do so. That could have gone much worse. Perhaps the gods had heard his prayer after all.