Page 26 of Court of Shadows
“Aye, I will try to rest,” I said. “Good night.”
Good night. I had to grimace at the thought—it would be just as well if I stayed there at the basin until dawn came and I was needed in the kitchens again. How could I sleep soundly knowing that monster was out there? Could any of us stand against it? I shivered and tidied the kitchen, then pulled the door shut and stared across the room into the dark foyer. If that thing came back for Mary, mere doors would not stop it. I had to console myself with the idea that Finch and his sister would continue watching the house, and perhaps if the beast returned they would see it before it could strike.
It was cold comfort, and when I returned to my chambers and slid into bed, it was a long, lonely time before restless sleep allowed me to escape and dream.
Chapter Sixteen
Year One
Journal of Bennu, Who Runs
I followed the river north and composed in my head messages to my family.Do not worry, they began,I will return soon. These would be lies, but they would not be the first I told. My mother and sisters already disliked my fervent devotion to gods they did not recognize or respect. They worshipped as everyone else did, and thought me foolish for bowing low to the river, tothe bee, to the very palms that sheltered our house.
If they knew that no more than a shared vision of Meryt and Chryseis’s had sent me on this task, they would lock me up and lose the key.
Still. Composing the messages made me feel better, because if I was allowed to write such things or even see my family again, then it meant I had survived. How far would I have to go? How would I know when I arrived? The book and satchel grew heavier as I stumbled along the banks of the river. The ground sloped up and down, sometimes cluttered with reeds and shifting stones, sometimes open to the sun, and occasionally cooled by the shade of date palms. Would the guide I had been promised meet me at the next village, or the next? My belly demanded food and my thirst had become such that I tasted blood on the cracked edges of my lips.
As night fell on that first long day, I stopped in a small gathering of homes near a flooded bend. It was a farming community, and with the day’s work over, the villagers had returned to their homes to relax and drink honeyed beer.
I swatted at the mosquitoes swarming my arms and prowled the homes quietly, hopeful for a sign. The land grew hillier as I traveled away from the water. A woman sang to her child, the haunting melody drifting out through an open window. My feet felt raw, my body on the verge of collapse. And then, cause to hope! I noted the red-and-white paint flecking off the bottom of a brick house. It was just a modest place, not much morethan a squat hut, but a snake had been painted to the left of the door, and though it was old and faded with age, I knew what it meant.
Sanctuary.
“Hello?” I called, and tapped lightly on the wooden door. “A friend is at the door. I kneel in the river to pray. I wash the feet of jackals. I do not go to the temple, I do not speak the names.”
It was dark inside, and I wondered if nobody waited within. Then a light and a single eye appeared at the crack in the door. A gruff male voice said: “Are you lost, child?”
Smiling, I hitched the pack higher on my shoulder and replied, “My feet are on the path.”
The door opened, as I’d hoped it would, and I slumped gratefully inside. The man who greeted me was old and hunchbacked, and he leaned heavily on a cane that was little more than a branch. A few leaves still clung to the top. He limped across the straw floor to a table surrounded by three stools. He had farmer’s hands, strong and scarred, and though his furnishings were meager, the smell emanating from his small brick oven was excellent. Of course a man who worshipped all of nature’s beauty, as we did, would have a special touch when it came to farming the land. I had no doubt his crops grew better and hardier than all the rest.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” I said, setting down the satchel with a sigh.
“Don’t thank me yet, boy,” he replied. “Meti is my name, butmy daughter will soon be back. She will not want you here.”
I hesitated near the door, my stomach giving a loud rumble as I did so.
“Ha. We can fix that,” the man, Meti, said. Then he waved his hand toward the oven. “Take a bowl. Help yourself. We have more than enough to eat.”
“Mother and Father always provide,” I murmured, rushing to the oven. It was rude to look so desperate, but I had no shame in my weariness.
“They do. Lean times come for others,” Meti said. “Not for us.”
I filled my bowl and began to eat the fish stew. It was redolent with onion and garlic, and I washed it all down with gulps of thick, sweet beer. It was not food fit for the pharaoh, but it was more than enough for a tired traveler.
As I finished my second bite, the door banged open and a homely young woman walked in. She had Meti’s same narrow eyes and skinny frame. Her black hair was braided tightly back from her forehead, and she frowned at me and then at my satchel.
“No, Father!” she said at once, dropping the basket of onions she had been carrying. “No more of this! These visitors only bring trouble.”
“I told you so.” Meti cackled from the table. “Bring me a cup of beer; I am thirsty, too.”
The daughter stomped up to me and poked a finger in my face. “Finish that food and drink that cup, then you must go.”
“Hush, Niyek, hush. Let him stay the night.”
“No!” She whirled on her father, bringing him a cup of beer and slamming it on the table. “You are too old for these ridiculous people and... and their make-believe!”
He pointed to the overflowing basket of onions, each bigger and more well-formed than the last. “Is that make-believe, child? When the drought did not touch our crops, was that ridiculous, too?”
