roof gradually lowered, and soon her steps brought her to the
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innermost sanctuary. The goddess sat on a platform behind the
altar; her priestesses hovered near with towels and basins of
water to wash and dress Bastet for the day. A pile of dis-
carded nightclothes lay in a heap on the floor, while another
slave stood nearby with a platter of fruit and meat for the
goddess’s breakfast.
Kahent fell to her knees and bent her head to the floor
three times. She was as devout in her practice of religion as
Donkor was indifferent in his, yet still the goddess had
blessed them. Kahent and her husband and daughter were
strong and not afflicted with any of the diseases that struck
less wealthy people.
In gratitude and reverence, Kahent remained on the floor.
She would wait until after the goddess had breakfasted, then
present her petition.
The priestesses adorned the goddess with robes and jewels,
then placed the food on the altar. Her attendants waited in
silence as the tall statue stared down on the platter, her
emerald eyes twinkling in the shafting rays of sunlight from
the high clerestory windows. After several moments, at a
signal from a shaven-headed priestess, one slave whisked the
food away, another clothed the goddess in a fresh collar, and
a priest solemnly announced that Bastet was ready to receive
visitors and deliver oracles.
Kahent was the only petitioner in the sanctuary. She took
a deep breath and clasped her hands to her breast. “Oh, most
divine Bastet,” she began, rising to her knees before the im-
posing statue, “behold your servant, who came into being
from your goodness! I have a daughter of marriageable age
who needs a worthy husband.”
Her words echoed in the stillness of the chamber, yet
nothing moved. Kahent waited, breathing in the bittersweet
aromas of the burning incense, the tiled floor hard under her
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31
knees. The few priests who moved in the shadows beyond the
goddess paid her no heed.
No answer came to her, nothing at all. She shifted uneasily,
not sure how to proceed, then a flat, inflectionless voice cut
through the silence. “Bastet will hear you.”
A young, thin woman stepped out of the shadows, the pale
skin of her shaved head gleaming in the torchlight. “The
majesty of Bastet says to you, ‘Listen to this my servant
Ramla, who will work my magic. Tell her what you will, and
she will relay my divine message.’”
Kahent studied the girl. Tall and slender, she wore the
simple white robe of a priestess and a golden collar about her
neck, a symbol of the goddess’s ownership. The girl could
have been anywhere from fifteen to thirty, so unlined was her
sculpted face. Kahent made a mental note of approval, but as
her eyes traveled downward, one sight gave her pause: the
girl’s right hand was malformed—only three fingers grew
where five should have been. How could this be? Most mal-
formed children were thrown to the crocodiles of the Nile.
“Do not let the sight of my servant disturb you.” The priest-
ess’s eyes hardened, and Kahent knew the girl had seen the
revulsion in her glance. “She has been given graces and power
to atone for her physical losses. Ramla will serve you well.”
With these words, the slender girl bent at the waist and
bowed before Kahent.
“So be it,” Kahent said, frowning. She paused, then
dropped the bag of silver at the girl’s feet. “My petition is a
matter of the heart. My daughter, who must marry well, has
spent nearly every day of her life with a slave who surpasses
her in beauty. I want to rid my daughter of this girl, but do not
know how to proceed without arousing her to anger or break-
ing her heart.”
Straightening into the ramrod posture of a royal guard, the
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priestess closed her eyes and tilted her head as if she were lis-
tening to a far-off voice. After a moment her face cracked into
a smile and she nodded drowsily. “Yes, Bastet,” she mur-
mured, opening her eyes.
She shared the smile with Kahent. “Love cannot easily be
killed, but it can be distracted.” Casually, she tossed the bag
of silver onto the altar, then walked to Kahent’s side and took
the lady’s arm, lifting her to her feet. “Take me to your home,
lady, and give me a day with your daughter. Bastet has
directed me to make the proper spells and incantations. I can
divine the future, and will not leave your daughter’s side until
all be well.”
Stunned by the magnanimous gesture, Kahent allowed
Ramla to lead her from the sanctuary.
“You sent for me, mother?” Sagira called, rushing into the
reception room. She was about to complain about the inter-
ruption of her playtime, but the sight of the stranger with her
mother left her speechless. The young woman who sat in one
of the gilded chairs wore the shaved head and golden collar
of a priestess from one of the temples.
“Sagira, this is Ramla.” Her mother gestured to the visitor
with a graceful hand. “She is a priestess at the temple of Bastet.”
Feeling awkward and gauche, Sagira barely managed to nod.
Ramla gave Sagira a warm smile. “I do not live at the
temple all the time—only one month out of four. Tomorrow
I begin my time of absence, and your gracious mother has said
I may spend three months as part of your household.”
“We need the blessings of the goddess,” Sagira’s mother
said, studying Sagira with careful eyes. “Don’t you agree,
my daughter?”
“Yes.” Sagira managed a crooked smile. For what reason
did they need the special favor of the gods?
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33
“I am especially looking forward to getting to know you,”
Ramla said, rising from her chair. In that moment Sagira saw
the woman’s misshapen hand, and knew from her mother’s dis-
approving gasp that she had not managed to disguise her horror.
But Ramla did not seem to care. “Pay no attention to things
that can be observed with the eyes,” she said, reaching for
Sagira’s hand with her whole one. “I can teach you how to
discern with your heart. The gods have compensated for my
missing fingers with other gifts, and I can teach you secrets
you have never known. I can read the future for you, child.”
“Truly?” Fear fell from Sagira like a discarded cloak, and
wonder slipped into its place.
“Yes.” Ramla’s voice was low and soothing, and her hand
slipped up to stroke Sagira’s hair. “Kneel before me while I
work a spell of divination.”
Sagira caught her breath as she fell to her knees. Her
mother had often participated in such religious rituals, but
until now Sagira had been considered too much a child to have
a priestess divine her future. That her mother would now
allow such a practice spoke more of Sagira’s maturity than the
flowering of her red moon…
As Sagira’s mother stood to fetch the family’s divining
bowl, Sagira smoothed her face and tried to copy the look of
earnest interest her mother wore. A moment later Lady Kahent
returned with the bowl of blackened silver. The bottom of the
inner bowl had been engraved with the figure of the jackal-
headed Anubis, the opener of roads for the dead.
Ramla accepted the bowl and placed it on a stand, then
filled it with water from a pitcher. Murmuring prayers and in-
cantations, she poured a small amount of fine oil into the bowl
from a clay vial. As the oil swirled and eddied over the surface
of the water, Ramla closed her eyes and lifted her hands.
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Dreamers
Hail to you, O Re-Harakhte, Father of the Gods!
Hail to you, O ye seven Hathors,
Who are adorned with strings of red thread!
Hail to you, Anubis, Lord of heaven and earth!
Cause Bastet to appear before me,
Like an ox after grass,
Like a mother after her children,
Send her to me so I may ask the future of Sagira, born
of Donkor and Kahent!
The sweet incense in the room seemed overpowering,
and a cold lump grew in Sagira’s stomach as she studied the
priestess. Beads of perspiration appeared at the woman’s
temple; her features twisted into a maddening grimace.
Tendrils of apprehension wound through Sagira’s body as
the priestess opened her black eyes and seemed to stare
straight through flesh. Strange words flew from the seer’s
mouth, and her gaze darted to the bowl where oil swirled on
the waters.
“I see, Sagira, that you are surrounded by people who love
you,” Ramla said in an awed, husky whisper. A slight smile
twisted one corner of her face. “You are much loved. You will
marry a man of great importance according to your parents’
wishes, and Pharaoh will pronounce his blessing on the union.”
“Children?” Lady Kahent called from a corner of the room.
“Will she have children?”
Pearls of perspiration shone on the young woman’s forehead.
“You will be remembered through all time,” the priestess droned,
her eyes as dark as a cavern. “As long as men walk on the earth,
they will speak of you. Your memory will be immortal—”
Sagira couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Me?”
Ramla trembled, then her hands flew to the sides of the
bowl as she steadied herself. “Not your name,” she whispered
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35
hoarsely. “Your…role. You will leave an imprint on the sands
of time that cannot be erased.”
At these words, the seer’s eyes rolled up into her head and
she slumped to the floor, her limbs thrashing in a seizure.
Sagira scrambled backward and shrieked, but Kahent flew to
Ramla’s side and held the woman’s flailing arms. “For you
she has borne this,” she said, looking at her daughter with
something like awe in her eyes. “You will be remembered,
daughter, longer than Pharaoh, for more years than those who
built the ancient pyramids.”
Sagira placed her hand over her mouth and tried to stop
crying. The body of the priestess stilled, but the young woman
did not move. Kahent left Ramla on the floor and reached for
her daughter.
“My little one,” she crooned, enfolding Sagira in an em-
brace. “How often did I dream that you would bring glory to
this house! And now I find that your glory will eclipse that of
all other women!”
“She didn’t say that,” Sagira mumbled, her mind whirling
with confusion. “She said I would be remembered. And not
my name, but my role.” She raised her head to look at her
mother. “What can that mean?”
Kahent pressed her lips together and helped Sagira rise
from the floor. She said nothing as she led her daughter to the
couch, then she motioned for Sagira to sit beside her.
“It can only mean one thing,” she whispered, a smile
dimpling her cheek. “And you must never speak of this to
anyone, for to do so would be treason.”
Sagira felt a shiver pass down her spine. “Treason?”
“Yes.” Kahent pressed her finger to her lips as she
thoughtfully weighed her words. “As you know, daughter,
the royal blood of the two kingdoms passes down from
woman to woman. Amenhotep, my brother, is Pharaoh be-
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Dreamers
cause he married the heiress Merit-Amon, the daughter of
Tuthmosis.”
“But you are also a daughter of Tuthmosis,” Sagira
pointed out.
“My mother was a lesser wife.”
“So what does this have to do with me?”
“I am also a daughter of Tuthmosis,” Kahent answered, her
voice a thin whisper in the room. “If the gods will that
Pharaoh’s house, all his sons and daughters, should be de-
stroyed, I will be the heiress. And when I die, you will be the
heiress. Whomever you marry will be Pharaoh, and your sons
and daughters will continue the dynasty.”
As the words swirled around Sagira, she clutched the arm
of her chair, stunned by the revelation. “Your role,” Kahent
whispered, the breath from her lips stirring the hair at Sagira’s
ear, “is obvious. You will be the mother of pharaohs. The
mother of a new dynasty, the greatest in all Egypt. You and
your children will leave an imprint on the sands of time that
cannot be erased.”
Kahent’s head fell on her daughter’s shoulder in a bout of
joyous weeping, but Sagira sat still, thinking. She had been
relieved enough to hear that she would marry well. This
prophecy of immortal influence was too much to comprehend.
Tuya noticed a difference in her mistress almost immedi-
ately. In the days following Sagira’s introduction to the strange
priestess of Bastet, she seemed withdrawn and tense, but she
would not give an explanation for her altered mood. In the
mornings as Tuya arranged her mistress’s toilet, Sagira was
snappish and irritable, quick to complain about Tuya’s heavy