In the Name of the King

Judith Tarr

Far in the east of the Field of Flowers, in the country west of the horizon, in the land of the blessed dead, the King’s Architect Senenmut paused by a stream so that his mare might drink.

She was only a little mare, not even thirteen hands high, delicately graceful like a gazelle, with a sweet dark eye and a soft gait. She had drawn his chariot while he lived. Now that they both were dead, she was his companion and his friend. She had guided him in his journey from the tomb and stood beside him in the courts of judgment. Her heart weighed with his against the feather of Justice had swayed the balance and gained him entry to the fields of peace.

While she drank her fill from the stream that wound among the lotus blossoms, he rested against her, arm over her back. Although she was dead, she felt like a living thing, warm and breathing. She ate, she drank, as he did, as did all the souls in this realm beyond the horizon.

Even the sun came here, the boat of Ra sailing from the dusk of the living world to be the dawn of this one. His light paled the stars that did not fade, and brought splendor to the dry land, and set the beasts of the dark to flight—terrible beasts, demons, devourers of souls. They flocked the borders of the Field of Flowers, moaning and gibbering, dragging the tattered rags of less fortunate souls. But they never passed into the Field. The blessed, once judged and found worthy, were free of them.

Day was passing in the land of the dead, just as night passed in the Two Lands of Egypt. Senenmut's mare raised her head, shedding water from her muzzle. Shouts rang faint through the shimmering air: the boatmen readying the bark of Ra for its journey. The god’s radiance moved slowly among the flowers, touching now one, now another, with molten brilliance.

A throng of souls walked with him, kings and queens among the dead, or high noblemen and loyal servants who had won their way to this place. It was a long way and perilous, and its paths open only to those who knew the words, the magic of true names. Such magic in old days had been given only to kings and to kings’ children. Now kings bestowed it on lesser mortals—bringing in a pack of commoners and low rabble, to the disgust of the most ancient. But the gods, even golden Ra, offered no objection.

Senenmut, born a commoner, son of a scribe and a simple lady of the household, had grown to suspect that the gods were considerably less inclined to snobbery than the gods’ children. Perhaps the gods were even amused. Was Ra smiling above the throng of heads in their lofty double crowns? So much royalty, perhaps, might seem common to divinity; the god might find it refreshing to look on a head that had never worn a crown, nor ever wished to.

One figure sat a little apart, watching, saying nothing. The high cone of the White Crown, the lower squared helmet of the Red Crown in which it nested, were laid aside. The crook, the flail lay beside them. The false beard was nowhere that Senenmut could see.

He approached without servility, with the mare walking at his shoulder. Her ears were pricked; she was looking for the bit of sweet that this of all pharaohs always had for her.

This pharaoh smiled at him, a smile unmarred in sweetness by the death that was still so new, the courts of judgment just lately passed, the scars of ordeal still faintly evident in the shadowed eyes. He knelt because it was his pleasure, and took the slender hands in his, and smiled himself. “0 my king,” he said.

“Senenmut,” said his king. The name throbbed like a drum, as all names did here, where names were the greatest of powers. The king started a little: it was still new, that magic, and still strange. Magic in the mortal world was a much lesser thing, muted and blunted by the power of living earth.

Senenmut spoke with care, knowing what power he invoked, what strength he imparted. “Maatkare,” he said. “Hatshepsut.”

The king’s hands clenched in his. He was braced for that. One gave a name as a great gift, for it brought life and continued existence to the soul—and to one as new as this, an increase of strength.

“There, love,” he said, soothing. “There. It gets easier, the longer one goes on.”

“I do hope so,” said Hatshepsut. That was closer to the voice he knew, briskly practical, with the crisp edge of one accustomed from childhood to command. One who, born a woman, meant to be a queen, claimed the right and title of a king—because a woman, even a queen, must defer to a king, and a king defers only to the gods.

“And,” she said, since his thoughts were as clear here as if they had been spoken, “no one else could do it as well as I.” She rose. She was a small woman, but she stood very straight and walked with a firm stride, not mincing like a silly female. She kept a hand in his.

They watched the Sun-god embark on his boat. The boatmen cast off from the strand onto the river of light. The oars swung to the beat of the drum. A sigh escaped the flock of kings left standing on the bank. None, however he strained, whatever magic he invoked to sharpen his eyes, could see past the god's brilliance to the lands of the living.

As the god passed, his light faded. The stars came out one by one, white and motionless in a sky blacker than any mortal night. The beasts of the darkness, rousing, began to howl and gibber.

Hatshepsut stood bravely still, but her hand gripped Senenmut’s to the point of pain. He tugged gently. She did not move. “It's morning there,” she said. “The bread is baking. Can you smell it? Can you remember?”

Senenmut nodded. The memory could pierce like pain, if he let it. They did not bake bread here. Bread appeared when one was hungry, and beer, and whatever else one desired. Or servants brought it, silent images without life or volition. The simple homely acts of grinding the flour, mixing the dough, baking the bread, had no place among the royal dead. Kings did not do such things, nor did many of them seem to care how it was done, as long as they ate when they were hungry, and drank when they were thirsty.

Hatshepsut would forget. They all did. The shadow of life that was here would be enough. The magic of the Otherworld would engross her, the gods’ presence console her. She would become one with the blessed dead, even those who looked at her askance for what she had done: named herself king and in the naming become the thing.

0nce more he urged her to come away. This time she yielded, walking with him to the palace that he had built for her of magic and bright will. The greatest joy of his death had been the moment when, after the jackal-god had guided her into the Field of Flowers, she had seen who waited for her, and what he had done to bid her welcome. Her face had lit like a lamp in the gloom of the Otherworld. The shadow of sorrow had vanished, the veil of forgetfulness fallen. She had been his Hatshepsut as she was in life, vivid, joyous, splendid.

Her servants now were waiting, her noblemen who had gone before her. They sat to the feast with which they held each night at bay, in music and in dancing, and in prayers to the gods who were more clearly present here than ever in mortal Egypt. Here she was content. Here she could forget that she was dead.

Senenmut remembered, and never forgot. But Senenmut had no care for life or death, only for her presence. Death had been grim punishment while she still lived. Now she had come to him; now he was whole.

oOo

The dead sleep when it pleases them. As the living dream of the Otherworld, so do the dead dream of mortal things. Often they find themselves in their own tombs, winged and human-headed ba-spirits fluttering in the dusty stillness, or mute motionless bodies lying stiff and emptied in stone sarcophagi. But sometimes, if they have great will, or great power, they wander the world in spirit shape, and watch what passes there.

Senenmut, lying beside his king in the bed that they shared in death as they had in life, dreamed that he stood beside that bed with its head and feet like a lion's and its coverlet of soft scarlet wool. The figure in it in his dream was small as Hatshepsut was, slender yet sturdy, with the oval face and the arched nose and the wide-set eyes. But it was not his king whom he loved, though for a fact it was a king: none other would dare lie in the king’s bed.

“Thutmose,” whispered Senenmut’s spirit. The queen’s stepson, the king now that she was dead, stirred and woke and looked about. His dark eyes glittered, but only a little with fear. He was brave, was Thutmose, like the lion he so loved to hunt.

He saw nothing, although Senenmut stood close enough to touch. He sighed faintly and shrugged. After a moment he rose.

It was dawn beyond the walls of the palace. Bread was baking: its fragrance wound through the shuttered windows and made Senenmut want, all but irresistibly, to weep.

Thutmose yawned and stretched. He was not the supple boy that he had been while Senenmut was alive, but he was a slender, compact man, well honed in the hunt and in exercises among his soldiers.

Brat of the armies, Hatshepsut had called him, half in scorn. Hatshepsut had had little patience with him. They were remarkably alike in looks, in temper, in quickness of wit—but he was young and male and inclined to fight his way out of difficulties. Hatshepsut preferred the subtler way, the woman’s way: words and wheedling and, in extremity, threats.

She had always won their arguments. Thutmose was too easily driven to speechlessness, and thence into violence; violence that he had never gone so far as to turn against the king. Even though he knew, everyone knew, that had Hatshepsut not stood in his way, he would have been king, sole and absolute. The gods had chosen Hatshepsut. Thutmose was the gods’ child and their servant. He yielded to their will.

Now he was king. He ruled well, Senenmut perceived, watching him as he performed the rites and offices of the day. He had learned to negotiate, or to choose advisors who had mastered the art. He was not resolving every quarrel with a sword or a bow.

Hatshepsut would be pleased that her stepson had turned out so well. She had never faulted him for being what he was, nor hated him for all their quarrels. “He’s sensible,” she had said often enough. “He knows which of us is best fit to rule.” She had reckoned herself fortunate in her successor.

A shriek tumbled Senenmut out of his dream and into waking death. He was on his feet, looking about wildly for the demon that must have pierced the veils and the ban and fallen on the servants.

No demon prowled and gibbered in Hatshepsut’s palace. The scream was Hatshepsut’s. She writhed on the bed, twisting in torment. He sprang to clasp her in his arms. Nightmare, he thought. Memory of the ordeal through which she had earned her place among the blessed.

He held her and stroked her and soothed her until at last she quieted. She lay gasping, clutching him with blind strength. He rocked her till her grip loosened and her breathing slowed. When she stiffened against him, he let her go. She would not thank him for being stronger than she, or calmer.

No more would she speak of the dream that had waked her screaming. He could not ask. In most things she was his beloved. In this she was his king.

Senenniut dreamed again of the living palace that was the image of this one in the land of the dead. He dreamed again, and yet again, of the king who lived in that palace. Simple dreams, harmless dreams, dreams of the king at rest and at the labor of his rule. They were rather dull, as

dreams went.

Hatshepsut, as if to counter that dullness, dreamed horrors. She could not elude sleep. If she tried, it came on her while she sat listening to the singers or watching the dancers or hearing the gods’ praises.

She did once, in a moment of great weakness, betray to Senenmut a little of what she dreamed. “Darkness,” she said. “Darkness absolute. Nothingness. To be blind, deafened, sunk in oblivion—not to be…to be nothing. Nothing at all. That—is what—”

He stopped her before she said more. She was dreaming of death. True death. Death of the soul, with no life after. It was a horror of most peculiar potency in this place to which her strength of wit and will had brought her. Her body was preserved as it must be for eternity. Her name was written everywhere that a name could be written, that no one might forget it. Her self was safe, her soul secure in its palace in the Field of Flowers. She had nothing to fear.

And yet she feared. She dreamed, and woke raw-throated with screaming.

The wise among the dead knew no cure for ill dreams. Such were not a malady of the dead. Senenmut, in the company of his faithful mare, sought out the most ancient of them all, one by one, even some so ancient that only the loremasters remembered their names. None had any help to offer.

Hatshepsut was sinking. Preposterous to think that of one who was dead and therefore, one should imagine, free of such mortal frailty, but there was no other way to perceive it. She was like a woman dying of a nameless malady.

Her strength was fading. Her eyes had grown dull. She seemed somehow transparent, as if the fabric of her being had frayed. Invocation of her name strengthened her for a little while, but it was not enough.

“There is one thing,” said a king of vast antiquity and remarkable freshness of face, like a youth just come into manhood. Senenmut had found him tilling a field of barley by the banks of a river of light, with a white ox yoked to his plow, and a golden goad. It seemed to be a kind of ritual, or a habit of such long standing that even he could not remember why he did it.

He was not displeased to pause, nor unduly perturbed to be approached by an obvious commoner, a soft-bodied, shaven-headed scribe dressed in the fashion of the most recent dead. “It might be,” he said when he had heard Senenmut out, '”that someone in the land of the living is casting ill fortune on your king's memory.”

“But,” said Senenmut, “what mortal is strong enough to touch her even here, among the dead who are blessed?”

The ancient king shrugged. “The gods know. You could ask them.”

Senenmut shivered. He had never approached a god here. It was not that the gods discouraged petitioners—quite the opposite. There were throngs of souls about every divinity who wandered in the Otherworld. But most of those souls were royal souls. Senenmut was a commoner. To approach a god, even on a king's behalf…

While Senenmut pondered, the ancient king had gone back to his plowing. Senenmut thanked him as was proper. He did not seem to hear, or to remember that Senenmut had spoken to him.

oOo

The land of the dead was full of gods, now that Senenmut took time to notice. They seemed to be everywhere, surrounded by sycophants, doing nothing in particular, except for those whose task it was to rule the dead.

Osiris sat in his grave-wrappings in his hall of judgment. Senenmut watched him oversee the weighing of a man's heart. The heart weighed far too light on the scale of Justice. The man's soul, appalled, shrieking curses and prayers and promises of anything, everything, if only he could escape, was fed feet first to the Eater of Souls.

The great beast belched thunderously and eyed Senenmut as if it might fancy a final morsel. He fled.

Anubis the Guide, jackal-headed and jackal-quick, was herding a flock of souls to the judgment. Senenmut could not come close enough to ask his counsel, let alone to win an answer.

Great Ra in his mantle of light was walking by the river, as he did every day of this afterlife, resting from his journey through the lands of the living. Surely he of all gods would know best what mortal man worked spells of torment on a king who was dead. But kings surrounded him. Queens waited on him. Senenmut despaired of ever gaining his ear.

Senenmut wandered away up the river, with his mare walking dejectedly at his side. What god would ever stop to listen to the likes of him? What god would care, even if he heard what Senenmut had to ask?

Out of sight of the bark of Ra but still in the sphere of his light, Senenmut stopped and sat on a stone. The mare dropped her head to graze. He gazed blindly at the river, at the bright fish that leaped there, pursuing dragonflies that were spirits of the dead.

A cat came walking out of the tall grasses. At first she was only a movement in the comer of Senenmut’s eye. He glanced at her without thinking. She was a sleek cat, small as his mare was small, with delicate feet and a long, elegant tail. She stalked directly to Senenmut and sprang into his lap and began to wash her paws.

He was not ready, quite, to see her as a portent. Cats were their own creatures here as in any other place. He smoothed her fur with his hand, finding it soft, like sleep.

But she was very wide awake. She left off bathing to lean into his hand. He rubbed her ears. She began to purr.

After a while he wearied of stroking her and let his hand fall. He sighed. If the dead could die, then Hatshepsut was dying. “And I don’t know what to do,” he said. “I don’t know at all.”

“You could,” said the cat, “finish scratching my left ear.”

Senenmut started. Of course animals could talk here, if it suited them. It did not suit his mare, but clearly it suited this cat.

He did as she bade him. Cats, as every Egyptian knows, are all goddesses, all faces of Bastet. One should always oblige a goddess.

“Ah,” she said, “that's better.” She yawned and stretched. Her claws just pricked his thighs under his kilt.

He expected her to leap down then, since she had got what she wanted. But she stayed in his lap, blinking her big yellow eyes at him, until he said, “If madam has any further wishes, madam has only to ask.”

The cat yawned. “I know a thing,” she said.

Senenmut's brows rose.

“You could ask,” said the cat after a while, “what it is that 1 know.”

Her claws had tightened on his thigh. He drew a careful breath. “What does madam know?”

“Madam knows,” said the cat, “that a certain king is ill, here where no illness should be. And madam knows that the king has cause to be ill.”

Senenmut’s breath had begun to come faster. If his heart had been in his breast and not in a jar beside his body in its tomb, it too would have beat a quicker rhythm. “Would madam please to name that cause?”

“I might,” said the cat, leaping from his lap. His leg stung where she had sunk her claws. She walked away from him, tail high and delicately curled at the tip.

Almost he failed the test. Almost he let her go. But she was walking, not bounding through the tall grass as a cat might who goes about its own business. She meant, surely, for him to follow. He thrust himself up from the stone and hastened after her. The mare trotted after him, snatching a last mouthful of grass for the journey.

The cat did not lead them far. She followed the river’s bank, then turned somewhat away from it, toward a hill of stones that might, in time long past, have been a king’s palace. Now it was only rubble and broken walls with grass growing on them.

A falcon perched on a crumbling jut of wall. Senenmut’s eye met the falcon’s. The bird blinked once, slowly, and spread its wings.

Senenmut bowed low, even to the ground. Lord Horus mantled and took wing into the vault of the sky.

Much heartened and a little afraid, Senenmut looked back toward the cat. She was gone.

His heart sank. Then he saw the flick of a tail, the passage of a supple sand-brown body among the sand-brown stones. He scrambled after her.

Just as he came level with her, she halted, so quickly that he tripped and fell sprawling. The world spun away from him. As in a dream, or an image painted on a wall, he saw the cat, and the mare standing stiff with alarm, and the hard flat vault of heaven beyond the stones of the wall.

He fell, and fell without ending—fell down and down into a swooping dark.

There had been an opening in the wall, he remembered dimly, and perhaps a stair. He spared an imprecation for the treachery of cats.

He struck bottom at last with force that would have shattered bones if he had been a living man. Even as it was, it was a whirling while before he could see, and longer before he comprehended where he was.

Walls. Pillars. A mingling of deep gloom and sudden brightness.

The gloom was shadow under a lofty roof. The brightness was sunlight lancing through the pillars. He knew the shape and placement of them—knew them as he knew his own hands. He had built them, he and all the king’s workmen, raising her temple to the glory of her name.

He was lying on his back. He was not, as he had half expected, in the form of a ba-spirit, human-headed, bird-bodied. The shape he wore was his own, kilt and all—his ka, the strongest of his spirit-selves. He rose slowly, prepared to count bruises, but there were none. Of course. He was dead. The dead could not suffer the ills of the living.

Unless the dead were Hatshepsut, and were dying in the place where death, once having come, did not return.

Voices rang beyond the pillars. Senenmut knew the sound of chisel on stone. There was a crash, a chorus of shouting.

What, were they building anew in the temple that he had raised for his king?

“Go and see,” said the cat.

She was sitting at the base of a pillar, tail curled neatly around her paws. She seemed a solid creature, a living cat, with even a ring in her ear, a gleam of gold in the gloom. But he saw the light of the goddess on her.

He bowed to her. “I regret,” he said, “that I thought—”

“Oh, 1 am treacherous,” said the cat. “That's true enough. But not now. Go and see what they do to your king.”

Alarm blared in him at that. He ran toward the light.

It was splendid. Blinding. Sheer raw sunlight in the land of the living, unsoftened by the magic of the dead. He blinked in it, dazzled, weeping with the splendor of it.

But even as he wept, he strained to see what he must see.

There were men swarming on the outer face of his temple, men with hammers, with chisels, with ladders. Even as he stood on the edge of the light, one scaled the mighty image of the king that stood nearest to Senenmut, and set chisel to the carved and painted eye, and with the hammer drove it home. He struck out the eyes of the king, as one below effaced her name.

They were doing it all through the temple—all through the Two Lands. They were putting out her eyes. They were casting down her images. They were hacking out the name of Maatkare Hatshepsut and carving that of Menkheperre Thutmose.

A low wail wound about Senenmut. It was his own voice, his own cry of horror and despair. Terrible things he had expected; cursings, ill-wishings, pure mean human envy of the woman who had dared to call herself a king.

But this.

This was more than hate. This was murder. This was destruction of all that Hatshepsut had been. In blinding her images, in effacing her name, they were unmaking her. They were destroying her soul. They were slaying all that she had ever been, even to her memory.

The doer of it, the unmaker, sat on the palanquin that had been hers, wore the Two Crowns that she had worn, held the crook and the flail as she had held them, in strong small hands. His long eyes, drawn longer with lapis and malachite and kohl, were smiling as he watched his workmen. They swarmed as locusts will, destroying all they touched—all that had been Hatshepsut.

Senenmut sprang upon the workman nearest him and seized the hand that held the chisel. The man never paused. Senenmut's strength was no greater than a whisper of wind, his voice nothing to these living men, not even a fly’s buzzing. He was spirit only, bereft of flesh. He was powerless.

He raged and wept. He whirled about Thutmose’s palanquin. The wind indulged him, raised a flurry of dust, but the king’s servants merely raised the screens to keep it out. The king knew nothing but a moment’s inconvenience.

"Why?" Senenmut shouted at him—for all the good it did; for all the power he had to make anyone hear him. “What did she ever do to you?”

“She was king,” said the cat.

Senenmut spun. The cat had followed him into the sunlight. People could see her: the servants eyed her askance, but did not drive her off.

She ignored them. “She was king, and he—though she let him hold the title—was not.”

“But,” said Senenmut, “twenty years…he never tried…”

“No?” said the cat. “She died rather young, when you think about it. He might have helped her. He’s a brooder, you know. Twenty years of waiting for her to get tired of playing king and let him have what was his to begin with—that was twenty years of deciding exactly how he was going to avenge himself on her when he was king.”

“Cowardice,” Senenmut said fiercely. “If he had faced her while she was alive—if he had dared—”

“He didn't,” said the cat. “He’s going to kill her now—or finish killing her, if you prefer.”

Senenmut had gone beyond horror. He was almost beyond anger. “But what can I do? I have no strength. I can’t even make a workman hear me when I bellow in his ear.”

“Well,” said the cat, “that’s Ra for you. He’s a terrible sapper of strength when one’s a spirit, and dead besides.”

“I wasn’t any stronger inside,” gritted Senenmut.

“Weren’t you?” said the cat.

“I—” Senenmut stopped. Had he been stronger within, away from the sun? Or was it—

“There,'” said the cat. “Now you see.”

He turned away from the smug, smiling, murderous king. He turned his back on the sun, and on the workmen unmaking Hatshepsut in her own temple that Senenmut had made. He darted into the depths of that temple, through the crowding pillars, across the first of the broad and splendid courts, from shadow to sun and into shadow again.

There on the sunrise side, beyond the temple and the road that led to it, was the secret place that was Senenmut’s alone. There his body lay. There, in a place that none but Senenmut and the king and a few loyal servants had ever known, was haven..

Yes. He was stronger here. He had strength deep within the temple, where he had made magic in his own name and with his own face among the manifold images of his king and her gods. But in his own tomb he was strongest of all.

And in his tomb, Hatsbepsut’s name and her images endured. He felt as in his own body the cutting away of her name and soul and self from the temple—but here she was safe. Here she was remembered in stone, and in the heart that rested in its jar beside his body.

He sat cross-legged on the sarcophagus, as a scribe sits, although he had no papyrus, no reed pen, no inks to draw the figures that shaped her name. He spoke it in the darkness of the tomb. “Maatkare,” he said. “Hatshepsut.”

Far to the west of the Two Lands, in the land beyond the horizon, he felt a stirring, a welling of strength. With the eyes of the spirit he saw her sit up in the bed to which she had fallen. With the ears of the soul he heard her call. “Senenmut!”

His spirit quivered, yearning toward that name, and toward the one who spoke it. But his heart held him fast.

They were hacking at the door of his tomb, destroying her name here as in the temple. But they would not come into the secret chamber. He wove great spells of guard and binding, sitting atop the stone that held his body. He set her name in them, and his own, and all the power of will and love and memory.

It was a mighty working, mightier than any he had ever done. He was strong—strong with the power of the blessed dead. But even they must weaken at last; must know the failing of their strength, the limits of their magic.

It was a dim and guttering spirit that sank down upon the sarcophagus and lay there, powerless even to raise its head. The dead could not die, nor could Senenmut sink into oblivion while his name remained in the temple and in the tomb. Yet he was very weak.

He heard the whisper of a step, the faint rumble of a purr. The cat’s cheek brushed his foot, marking him with her scent. “That was well done,” she said. “Except for one thing. You should have thought to leave a little for the journey back.”

Senenmut shifted a fraction. He could see her even in the black dark, a sleek shape with the shimmer of the goddess on her. “Back?” he whispered, for that was all the voice he had.

“Back,” said the cat. “To your king. In the Field of Flowers.”

Senenmut’s eyes closed. It did no good. He could still see. “I can't go back,” he said. His voice was a little stronger. “I have to stay here. To guard. To remember.”

He had not known it till he said it. It was knowledge of the heart, on which he happened to be lying, under the carved and painted stone.

“I must remember her,” he said, “and guard the memory. Else—else she dies, and he has the victory. I won't have that, goddess. By your own divinity I swear it.”

“Ah,” said the cat. “Well. If you put it that way. It's true, he's a vindictive little man. He could be a cat, don't you think?”

“That’s an insult to your kind,” said Senenmut.

“There, now,” said the cat. “I wonder what he’ll say when he comes to the Field of Flowers and finds her there, hale and strong and missing you rather terribly?”

Senenmut’s heart panged—strange sensation, since it was in the stone and he was lying on top of it. “If he comes so far, with the weight of evildoing that's on him, then he deserves any shock he gets. I’m staying here. He might take it into his head to do something once he's dead—haunt his heir till the young idiot finishes what he began, or come here himself and wipe her name from the earth. He could, you know. Once he's Osiris. If he keeps his grudge so long.”

“Oh, he will,” said the cat. “He’s tenacious, is Thutmose.” She shrugged, an arch of the back, a fillip of the tail. “But then, so are you. It’s going to be a long watch. I don't think you know yet how long.”

“Thousands of years,” said Senenmut, though his heart grew cold in its jar. “Tens of thousands, if need be. My king will live. I'll see to that.”

“You always were a vain man,” said the cat. She did not seem to regard it as an insult.

She did not bid him farewell. Such was not the way of cats. One moment she was there, regarding him with lambent eyes. The next, she was gone.

Senenmut was alone. He had never been so, not even when he died: his little mare had been waiting for him when he climbed out of his tomb and began his journey among the dead. She would wait, he knew, until he came back again. She loved him. She would not forget.

He would come back. When his task was done. When his king was safe, her name alive again, her memory made strong in the hearts of the living. However long it was. However many years he must endure, defending her against her enemies.

It was dark in the tomb. His heart was still, slumbering again in its jar. No air moved. No living thing stirred.

And yet there was a whisper on the edge of hearing, a shimmer on the edge of sight. Magic; power; guard and binding. And in their center, the thing that mattered most in the world. The name that he loved, which was the essence of his king. While it endured, and while he endured to guard it, she would live. The dark would not take her. Her soul would not sink into nothingness.

Maatkare, the whisper said. Hatshepsut.

The End

Copyright © 1995 by Judith Tarr

First published in The Book of Kings, ed. Richard Gilliam and Martin H. Greenberg