Serpent's Kiss (Elder Races #3)(42)

She nodded. He gestured to the older man, who sprang to his feet to bring two full goblets to him, the rich, heavy liquid shivering in his unsteady grip. Rune took one goblet, ignored the other, and helped Khepri to drink while the man knelt at his feet and awaited further commands. The beer would have a strong alcoholic content, but she had probably been drinking it since she was two or three. It was a wheat beer, and no doubt the grain had gotten a little moldy. That meant there would be tetracycline in the liquid, which was good. It would help to stave off any infection from the lash marks. He encouraged her to finish the goblet.

When the hectic brightness of her eyes began to glaze over, he said to the man, “Are you a priest?”

“Yes, my lord.”

He was unsurprised. Ancient Memphis had a surfeit of temples and necropoleis. He said, “Do you have authority?”

The man bowed his head. “Yes, my lord.”

“You will listen to me now and do as I say.”

“I live to serve you.” The man dared to look up, the fanatical light of devotion in his dark eyes.

Rune’s lip curled. What the f**k ever. He thought for a moment, choosing and discarding things to say. There was so much that would simply make no sense to this man. Finally he said, “What happened here tonight is an abomination to me.”

The man said quickly, “My lord, I promise you, the slave was not being disciplined without reason. She failed in her duty to please another god who was here—”

Another god?

Rune’s eyes flared in quick, jealous reaction. He looked around, taking in again the feast that had been so carefully laid out, the scene of seduction that had not been enacted. The man cowered before him. Khepri’s fingers stole behind her head to touch his hand, and he realized belatedly that he had started growling.

He made himself stop. He took a deep breath then another, analyzing the many scents in the room, and he realized what panic and rage had not let him realize before: another Wyr had recently been in the room.

Gently, he curled his hand around Khepri’s fingers, as he leaned over the priest. “Look at me.” The priest looked up, eyes wide, and Rune bared his teeth in a show of naked aggression. “A god chooses to do what he will. How dare you place the responsibility of that onto the shoulders of a mere girl?”

The priest fell forward to prostrate himself again. “My lord, I am sorry! We did not know we transgressed. Forgive us!”

“This is my decree,” Rune said. “You will take this slave and treat her as your most favored daughter. You will educate her as well as any man, and protect her, and see she has the best life you can give her. You will do this, and no other. If you fail in the slightest to do this one thing, I will find you. I will pull out your entrails, and leave you to watch them bake in the noonday sun. Do you understand me?”

As the priest babbled his agreement, the woman returned, carrying medicines and a pile of linens under one arm. She was followed by two other women bearing urns of steaming water. They hesitated at the doorway, their eyes wide, until Rune gestured them forward impatiently.

“Tend to her,” he said to them.

Whispering to each other, the women did as he ordered. He watched them. When he saw for himself how carefully they treated Khepri, he began to ease himself away.

Her small hand clenched on his and anchored him in place. He bent over her, and smoothed the hair from her forehead. She watched him with a mute entreaty. He did not understand what she wanted. Perhaps she didn’t either, and she only clung to the one person who had made her world safe again.

He said to her, “I am not sure when or how, but I can promise you one thing, darling. We will see each other again. Would that be all right with you?”

She nodded, her smudged face half hidden by the slippery dark silk of hair. On impulse he bent forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. Her fingers tightened on his hand, and then she let him go.

He stood and stretched his spine as he looked around. Gods. The scene was so intense, so real, he had completely fallen into it.

Could it be an illusion or a hallucination? Could it be something else, something more real? Could he somehow be affecting things in the past? He felt the impulse to laugh, to shove the idea aside. Then he looked at the whip marks that were still bleeding on Khepri’s back and lost the impulse.

When he turned away, the priest was watching him with close attention. Rune stared at the man, his gaze brooding. In the Bible’s Old Testament, Gideon laid out a fleece to ask for evidence of God’s will.

Rune shrugged. He might not be a Christian and he did not depend upon the gods’ will, but asking for evidence seemed like a hell of a good idea. He turned his back to Khepri and her attendants, dug into his jeans and pulled out his pocketknife. It was a thoroughly modern, sturdy Swiss Army knife. He wondered how it would hold up for roughly forty-five hundred years.

He asked the priest, “What is your name?”

“Akil, my lord.”

“Who is your king, Akil?”

The whites of the priest’s eyes showed. It was clear he could not imagine why a god would not know such a thing, but he answered readily enough, “Djoser.”

Rune relaxed. He knew a little about Djoser, not least of which the man’s architect Imhotep had built one of the biggest, most famous ancient structures known to men. He held the knife up to the priest and pulled out all of its blades, watching as Akil’s eyes grew round with wonder.