Nine White Horses (26 page)

“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, Hatshepsut’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
.

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Egil was as ordinary as a Herald could be. He was no hero
or villain or Herald Mage. In the Collegium he was solidly in the middle of
every class. When he rode out on his internship, he did well enough, but
nothing that he did was especially memorable.

Other people had dreams of greatness. Egil dreamed of peace
and quiet, and time to read or write or simply sit and think.

Egil’s Companion was named Cynara. Like Egil she professed
no grand ambitions. She did love to dance when she had the chance, and Egil was
happy to indulge her. It was the one thing at which he was truly distinguished,
and as he said, it was mostly a matter of not getting in Cynara’s way.

Once Egil was past his internship, he was happy not to
travel any longer. He settled in at the Collegium, teaching logic and history
to the recruits, and taking on whatever other tasks seemed most in need of
doing. If there was anything that no one else had the time or inclination to
do, Egil did it. He never complained, and he always got it done.

That, like dancing with his Companion, was a talent he had,
but neither he nor anyone else thought overly much of it. “Not everyone can be
a hero,” he liked to say. “Someone has to keep everything in order while the
heroes are off saving the world.”

When the Mage Storms began, this was truer than usual. While
the world tried to shake itself to pieces, Egil and Cynara helped to hold the
Collegium together. It was thanks in part to them that after the Storms ended,
there was still a Collegium in Valdemar, and a place for Heralds and Companions
to enjoy a well-deserved rest.

Now that the world was safe, more or less and for a while,
Egil was content to disappear into his office and classroom. Most mornings as
soon as it was light he went with Cynara to one of the riding arenas and
danced. Sometimes people came to watch, but mostly the two of them had the oval
of raked sand to themselves. It was their private time, a sort of meditation
for them both.

One morning after an especially satisfying dance, Egil came
back to his office to find a summons from the Queen.

He had met her, of course. All the Heralds had. She was one
of them, after all.

He doubted she remembered him, and he had no particular
desire to be remembered. The summons made no sense to him, unless he had done
something wrong without knowing it, or more likely this was a mistake and she
had meant to summon someone else. The Herald Elgin, maybe. Or the Trainee who
shared Egil’s own name.

Yes, that was probably it. He dressed carefully in any case,
though he decided against formal Whites; if this had been a ceremonial
occasion, the summons would have said so. It was more an invitation, really,
bidding Herald Egil attend the Queen in her office. He had sent more than a few
of those himself to students in need of discipline or extra tutoring.

Neat, clean, and as ready as he could be, he presented
himself at the door to the Queen’s office.

o0o

Queen Selenay felt like a Companion. At a distance, she
was naturally more Herald than courtier, but face to face across a desk piled
high with books and papers, she was not so much a Herald as
something . . . stronger.

The realization put Egil more at ease than he had been since
he received the invitation. Companions invited awe, but in a way that Egil
understood.

Whatever important matters of state the Queen had been
contending with before he came, while he was there she fixed her full attention
on him. She studied him for some time in silence that he made no attempt to
break.

Eventually she folded her hands and leaned forward. Egil
managed not quite to feel as if he had been called in to the schoolmaster’s
office for a rebuke. She seemed interested, even intrigued, but neither angry
nor disappointed.

“Your family breeds horses, I’m told,” she said.

That was not what Egil had expected. He could only think to
bob his head like an idiot and answer, “Yes. Yes, madam.”

She smiled. It did not comfort Egil, at all. “All’s well
there, I understand, and your sisters report that this year’s foal crop is the
best they’ve seen in years.”

Egil gave up trying to hide his confusion. “What is it,
madam? Has Zara had her baby? Was one of the others Chosen? Though I would know
about that. Wouldn’t I?”

“You would,” the Queen said. “I’m sorry; I don’t mean to
torment you. I need a Herald with knowledge of both horses and riding.”

“All Heralds can ride,” Egil said. “Some are extraordinarily
good at it.”

“I am told,” said the Queen, “that none is as good as you.”

Egil flushed. “I would hardly say that. I have some talent
and a fair amount of training, but there are others who—”

“Not your particular kind of training,” the Queen said.

“I don’t understand,” Egil said.

“It’s little more than a rumor,” she said, “some odd stories
and the occasional magical anomaly, off the South Trade Road toward the
Goldgrass Valley. What’s strange is that they seem to revolve around a riding
academy.”

Egil’s brows rose. “A school of riding? In the middle of
nowhere?”

“Not exactly nowhere,” the Queen said with the hint of a
smile. “It’s horse country all around there, and certain elements of the court
have taken a fancy to it: they’ve been buying land and building summer houses
and stocking them with the finest in fashionable horseflesh.”

“And of course,” said Egil, “they’ll need trainers for the
horses and instructors for their offspring, and if those should gather in one
convenient place, so much the better.”

“Exactly,” said the Queen. “Your family has done much the
same, I’m told, and done extremely well, training horse trainers and sending
them where they’re needed.”

“You don’t think they’re involved with—”

“Probably not,” she said, “but now I’m sure you understand
why I would like you to ride along the South Trade Road and see what there is
to see.”

Egil did understand, but as sharp as his curiosity had
grown, his love of the quiet life was stronger. There was also one inescapable
fact. “Madam, I haven’t been in the field since I was an intern. Whatever
skills I had in that direction are long since rusted shut.”

The Queen smiled in a way that told him she had heard every
word, but not one had changed her mind. “It’s an easy distance, with inns at
every reasonable stop, and the weather at this time of year is usually lovely.
If it does happen that you have to camp for a night, you’ll have company who
can do whatever is needed to make you comfortable. I’m sending an intern with
you. She has some knowledge of horses as well, and some interest in the art of
riding. It should be a pleasant journey.”

There was not much Egil could say to that. The Queen had
thought of everything, as she should. She was the Queen.

Egil had successfully avoided official notice for much
longer than he had any right to. He was a Herald, and Heralds, as everyone
knew, were the Arrows of the Queen. They flew wherever she sent them.

Egil heaved a deep sigh. “As you wish,” he said.