Guardian of the Horizon (37 page)

Ramses passed through the monumental gateway of the cemetery, carved with figures of the mortuary deities, and began to climb the stairs. Sacred places that had once been out of bounds were open tothem now; the guards had saluted and let him pass. It was the first time he had come here, but he remembered what his parents had said: that the tombs here were more recent than the ancient rockcut chambers in the cliff. The tomb of Willy Forth, Nefret's father, was among them. He was interested in seeing the place, but he couldn't help wondering why Tarek's message had asked him to come there, and why Tarek had been so insistent that he tell no one. He smiled a little as he remembered the inscription on the outside of the folded paper: Private. Confidential. Tarek must have got that from one of the English novels he read. The injunction had been repeated in the letter itself: Tell no one. Come alone. Normally that was the sort of message that would have put him on his guard. However, there were only a few people in the Holy City whose English was that good, and he couldn't imagine MacFerguson Sethos or Moroney laying a trap for him or being allowed within the sacred precincts. He climbed slowly, enjoying the soft murmur of birdsong in the trees and the utter peacefulness. His own thoughts weren't so enjoyable. He ought to be helping his father, who was working furiously to record as many of the Holy City's monuments as he could in the few days remaining before their departure. He ought to be on his way to the northern valley, where Daria was still staying in Tarek's villa. When he'd asked Tarek why she had not come, Tarek had only smiled and said something about women. Perhaps she expected him to go for her in person. He wanted to, and yet he didn't. He loved her. He intended to do what was right and what he desired (although he wasn't looking forward to telling his parents). So why did he delay? Nefret was a far-off mirage, a dream he would never possess. She'd been acting odd. It was as if she were two women: one the brave, laughing girl he knew, the other a remote stranger with haunted eyes. When he reached the top of the staircase and the small shrine that crowned it, a sleepy-eyed priest came out to give him directions. He followed the pathway the man indicated, and as he went on, scholarly fascination overcame his morbid thoughts. It was as if he had been transported back in time, over two thousand years of it,to see the tombs of Meroe and Napata in their pristine beauty. The tombs were on the right-hand side; before each of them the cliff had been cut back to make room for a porchlike chapel, with a miniature pyramid perched on its roof. In front of the chapels, round-topped stelae gave the names and titles of the dignitaries who rested within and, in most cases, those of their wives and children. The colors of the painted reliefs were still bright, the outlines of the carvings still sharp. He had gone quite a long way before he came to the tomb that must be that of Nefret's father. There was no sign of Tarek or of anyone else. He waited for a while, reading the curious inscriptions on Forth's stela, before he ventured into the little chapel. The light was cool and dim. The first thing he saw was a pair of life-sized statues standing against the facade of the tomb. The facade was not smooth and unbroken, closed for eternity after the burial. A square opening gaped between the statues. Someone had broken into the tomb. The few seconds it took him to assimilate this cost him dearly. Hands gripped him and a rope closed round his neck, tight enough to cut off his breath, darkening his vision, weakening his efforts to free himself. He felt his knees strike the stone paving. His arms were pulled behind him and ropes wound round his wrists. The agonizing constriction loosened and he heard a voice, soft and rapid, urging him not to struggle, promising no harm would come to him, and--he wondered if he was hearing right--asking his forgiveness for their rough handling. He wasn't reassured but he was still short of breath, so he offered no resistance as the hands lifted him to his feet and propelled him forward, toward the open entrance and down a short flight of stone-cut steps. There was a light below, the flickering dim light of a lamp. His captors--there were four of them-- lowered him gently to the floor. A large granite sarcophagus occupied most of the space in the small chamber. It was covered by a rotting linen pall sewn with gold-sequined spangles that glittered in the light. The walls were painted with scenes of the funeral and the judgment of the soul, with gods and goddesses welcoming the dead man to eternal life. On the wall to Ramses's left was a carved doorway, with a small offering table in front of it. The door faced west; through it would come the ka of the deceased, to feast on the food supplied for it. The offerings were fresh: fruits and bread, a jug of what was probably beer or wine, a roast fowl. Ramses was not superstitious about mummies, he had seen too many of them; but when a shrouded form appeared from behind the huge stone box where Forth's dry bandaged body lay, an involuntary shiver ran through him. Then he recognized the old wisewoman and realized she was leading another person by the hand. Nefret's hair glittered like the gold on the pall. She did not look at him, even when he spoke her name. Ramses got his feet under him and tried to stand. The point of a spear pricked his chest. "You are a fool," the old woman said. "Or a man in love. They are the same, yes? No harm will come to her unless you cause it. Do not move. Speak softly, if you must speak." She led Nefret to the side of the sarcophagus and settled her on a pile of cushions. Nefret's face was calm, her body relaxed, her breathing deep and even. Ramses looked up at the man who held the spear. His expression was absolutely terrified. Not a comfortable position to be in, between the devilish old woman and the wrath of a brother of demons. He doubted the fellow would dare use the weapon, but it would have been foolish to take the chance. He forced himself to speak evenly. "What do you want then?" "The past and the future. Her memories of the great Father Forth. Her foreseeing of what will come. For in this state all time is open to the sleeper. It is not a stream that flows in one direction only but a pool in which she may move at will." In spite of his fear for Nefret, Ramses was fascinated. How had this illiterate, primitive old woman come upon a theory of time like that of certain advanced modern thinkers? He knew what was wrong with Nefret. It was the same trance state into which Tarek had once sent him--a technique practiced in many cultures and in many ages, called by many names. He had only the vaguest memories of what had happened during that bizarre episode, but he hadwaked as if from a dreamless sleep, without ill effects. Had his face worn the same expression--inhumanly calm, faintly smiling? He knew it would be worse than folly to attempt to rouse her. Only the hypnotist could do that safely. The old woman settled Nefret more comfortably on the pillows, her withered old hands as gentle as those of a nurse. She raised Nefret's bowed head and Ramses's skin prickled when Nefret held the pose into which she had been placed, like a jointed doll with blue glass eyes. The old woman turned. "She is ready." Though the height of the sarcophagus concealed the other side of the chamber, Ramses had deduced there must be other rooms behind this one, containing items of funerary equipment and offerings. The old woman had waited in one of them with Nefret, and so had someone else. He came out now, around the corner of the sarcophagus. "I am sorry," he began. "I trusted you, Tarek! So did she. Why have you done this?" "It was necessary," Tarek said urgently but softly. "Forgive me for deceiving you and treating you roughly, but you would not have let me bring her here if I had told you the truth. It is for her good, and yours, and mine, that I do this. Listen and you will learn. And then, if you demand it, I will submit to whatever punishment you decree." Ramses didn't doubt that he would. Tarek was still a bloody romantic, and the look of appeal on his handsome face seemed genuine. "Do not wake the sleeper," the old woman droned. "The spell is cast. It cannot be broken now." "Goddamn it," Ramses said helplessly. It was grisly, ghoulish, and horrible--Nefret's bright head resting against the hard stone coffin that held her father's bones, her eyes empty. The worst was yet to come. The old woman began talking in a crooning mumble. And Nefret answered her. Nefret's face had changed; it looked rounder, softer. Her voice was a child's voice, high and sweet and quick. Tarek moved closer, his head bent as iflistening. Nefret spoke in a mixture of English and Meroitic, interspersed with giggles. Her features altered from moment to moment, from laughter to solemnity to grief, from those of a very young child to those of a girl on the threshold of womanhood. Tears filled her eyes and overflowed, and then she was laughing again, a high childish giggle, while her cheeks were still wet. Ramses did not understand everything she said, but it became increasingly clear that she was responding, not to the old woman's voice, but to that of someone else--a voice only she could hear. She turned her head, pressing her cheek to the cold stone. In the recess of the false door, a shadow darkened. "Stop it," Ramses gasped. He twisted his hands, trying to loosen the ropes. "Stop it!" "It is almost done," the wisewoman said calmly. "Have you heard, my prince?" Tarek nodded dumbly. The old woman took Nefret's face between her withered hands and looked directly into her eyes, whispering. In a flicker of time Nefret's face took on its former blank stare. Then her eyes closed and her head fell back, cradled in the old woman's hands. "She sleeps now. Take her back to her own place before she wakes. She will remember nothing of this." Ramses wrenched his hands free and sprang to his feet. "Don't touch her, Tarek. I'll carry her." Tarek stepped back and Ramses lifted Nefret into his arms. She was asleep, breathing lightly, smiling a little. "Did you understand what she said?" Tarek asked. "Not all of it. What the hell were you trying to do? If she isn't perfectly normal when she wakes--" "Then my life is at your disposal." Tarek followed him up the narrow stairs from darkness into daylight. "Ramses, my friend--" "Don't call me that." He held Nefret closer, shifting her weight so that her head lay against his breast. "You are my friend, my dear friend, even if I am not yours. Listen to me. She was speaking to her father, answering his words of love, promising to obey his commands. He knew many would seek her in marriage. She swore never to lose her maidenhood." Ramses came to a dead stop. "That's insane." "But it is true. We do not force women into marriage here. But she was warm and loving, and she . . . she cared for me. I could have won her, Ramses." Not if Forth could help it, Ramses thought. Despite the Englishman's affection for the people of the Holy City, he had not overcome all the prejudices of his class and nation. It was unthinkable for his daughter to marry a "native." Forth hadn't meant to condition her against marriage with what he would have called "one of her own kind." Or had he? God only knew what had been in the man's tormented mind. In any case, the "spell" had succeeded only too well. "But you didn't try," Ramses said. "You helped us to bring her back to England." "I obeyed the orders of my father Forth," Tarek said simply. "I was young and I believed what he had taught me--that she was not for me, that I would win honor by giving her up." "So he got at you too," Ramses murmured. "Am I to assume that you've had time to think it over and decide you made a mistake?" "I would not have brought her back," Tarek said. "By force or trickery. But when she came, through no act of mine, I thought perhaps it was a sign. This--today--was a way of finding out. I know now she will never love me." They had reached the top of the long staircase that led down to the road. Tarek took Ramses's arm, to guard against a stumble, and Ramses let it remain. "There is one thing more I must tell you," Tarek said. "I put you under the spell ten years ago. The wisewoman had taught me how to do it. I meant to place a call in your mind that would bring you here. Do you know whose voice it was you heard?" "Yes." Ramses hesitated. It was insane, but no more insane than the whole conversation. "Hers. Nefret's." "I thought so." Tarek sighed. "I did not put her voice in your mind, Ramses. You heard what the god meant you to hear. Though you were only a child, the god knew she was the woman destinedfor you. And now you are a man, and it has come about as the god intended." "I wish you wouldn't talk that way, Tarek," Ramses said sharply. "I don't believe in your god, or your destiny, and if what you've said is true, I've a damned poor chance of winning Nefret." "Forth's spell is not easily broken," Tarek said. "It is strong because it was forged of love. Only time can weaken it. Do not abandon hope." Talk about insane, Ramses thought. I'm listening to advice to the lovelorn from the Meroitic prince of a lost kingdom, who believes in magic. "Thanks," he said sourly. "You have forgiven me?" They descended the staircase. Tarek's hand was still on his arm. "I suppose so. Yes." "Place her here." Tarek indicated a stone bench. "It was here that she went to sleep." Ramses sat down, holding her. She was beginning to stir. Her lashes fluttered and she opened her eyes and looked up into his face. "What happened?" she demanded. "I was sitting here . . . Did I fall?" She sounded like the old Nefret, brisk and matter-of-fact. "You--uh--hit your head," Ramses said. "Don't you remember?" "No." She rubbed her eyes. "It doesn't hurt . . . Where is the wisewoman?" "She had to go back to the village," Tarek said. "How do you feel?" "Fine." She smiled at Ramses. Her blue eyes were bright and clear. "Thank you, my boy. You can put me down now." She squirmed off his lap and sat beside him. "What a beautiful day. I'm glad you suggested we go for a walk." Daria did not come to the city until shortly before they were to leave for home. Ramses's offer to go and bring her back had been refused, but she sent for him as soon as she arrived. He followed theservant to a pretty little suite of rooms near theirs and found her sitting cross-legged on a heap of cushions, running a comb sensuously through her shining hair. When he bent over to kiss her, she turned her head. "I'm sorry I didn't come to get you," Ramses said, thinking that was the cause of her vexation. "You told me not to. Are you angry with me?" "No. I'm not angry." "We are leaving the day after tomorrow. Can you be ready?" She put the comb down, took a