Shades of the Wind (12 page)

noon meal for which her employer did not show. Since Kaelin had left the day before

she ate alone—depressed—disappointed the prince had not come to eat with her. Even

Olabishi had not come down to eat for the woman was busy packing her belongings,

getting ready to leave Anubeion later that day. Admitting to herself that she had been

looking forward to eating with the prince, Catherine pushed the food around her plate,

sluggishly eating Holly’s delicious fare, feeling abandoned and unwanted.

Going back to work after her lonely meal, she did not ask the plantation women to

do anything she didn’t help them do. What had first been a stilted, uneasy endeavor

soon became joyful with both the women and their men helpers laughing and talking

openly amongst themselves and with Catherine. Taking time out only to say goodbye to

Olabishi and to walk with the woman to Mr. Beasely’s wagon, the day seemed to pass

by in a blur of excitement. When the sun began to lower and the workers became edgy,

Catherine realized they were anxious to leave Anubeion and she told them to come

back the next day to tackle more rooms.

“And bring me a slice of that pie you were teasing us with, Maria!” Catherine called

out to a large, heavy-busted woman who had been bragging about something she called

key lime pie.

From the stairway landing where he’d been standing for the last fifteen minutes or

so, Khenty watched the plantation folk smiling and conversing easily with Catherine.

He was leaning against the railing, his forearms on the top rail, his fingers threaded

together, observing the way the burgundy-haired woman had taken over the challenge

of his home and was well pleased with her abilities and her calm way of handling the

servants. He could tell the plantation people liked and trusted her and felt comfortable

in her presence.

“Your Grace?”

Khenty frowned at the grating sound of Lord Bahru’s voice and swung his head

toward the man. “What is it, taricheutes?”

Bahru flinched at the tone and at the derogatory way in which the prince said his

title. “I am afraid I woke late in the day and your servant tells me I will have to wait

until supper before I may break my fast. I—”

“The sun is almost set,” Khenty observed, “and you are just now getting up?”

“I worked late,” Bahru said. “Hasani was teaching me the intricacies of the

wrapping and—”

“You will eat when we eat,” Khenty said. “You have waited this long. You can wait

another hour.”

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Shades of the Wind

Grinding his teeth, Bahru bowed respectfully and went back into his room.

“Pompous ass,” Khenty labeled the man, and pushed away from the railing.

Padding barefoot down the stairs, he walked into the parlor and was amazed at its

transformation.

The drapes were thrown back and a stirring view of the setting sun was framed

behind the mullioned windows. Bright pinks and oranges vied with scarlet reds and

gold to streak the horizon. It was a breathtaking sight and standing at the window

watching this marvel of nature’s beauty was Catherine, her back to the room.

She sensed him even before he came to stand directly behind her, the scent of his

aftershave wafting beneath her nostrils. He was so close she could feel his body heat

and his warm breath fanning the hairs that had escaped her braid at the nape of her

neck.

“It is beautiful, is it not?” he asked in a low, soft voice.

“Very,” she replied, and could feel the acceleration of her heart.

He put his arms to either side of her—his palms on the window frame—pinning her

in. She was having trouble drawing breath for there was a strange feeling in her chest

and her breathing was quick and shallow. The way he was standing behind her seemed

all too familiar to her and it brought warmth to her cheeks.

“But the view is only half as beautiful as the one observing it,” he whispered.

“Milord,” she chastised in a breaking voice.

His lips were at her ear and the warmth of his breath was sending tremors down

her neck and spine.

“You know you belong with me,” he said.

“I am betrothed,” she said, hating the very sound of the words and wishing they

were not true.

“I am his master,” he reminded her. “As such, my wishes supersede his.”

“Please,” she whispered, closing her eyes to the soft touch of his mouth against the

column of her throat. She was trembling, dragging ragged breaths into her lungs.

“Do you remember your Chalean history, Katie?” he asked.

Her nickname on his lips sounded far too intimate and personal but Catherine

reveled in hearing it.

“R-regarding what, milord?” she questioned.

“
Jus primae noctis
,” he whispered.

“Milord!” she said. “There is no such law in Chale. That is an old myth told to

frighten young women.”

“Yes, but it is a law in Diabolusia,” he told her. “The Right of the First Night is alive

and well in this land, although I have never exercised that right.”

Another tremor shook Catherine as his words settled into the pit of her belly and

took root. She had no way of knowing if it was indeed a law in Diabolusia, but the

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rights of a feudal lord to claim a virgin on her wedding night sent chills through her

soul.

“Not that I would claim such a right of you,” he said, planting soft kisses down her

neck and onto her shoulder. “I will simply declare your betrothal null and void and

place myself as your intended.”

“You would not,” she said, almost panting beneath the press of his warm body

against her back.

“Wouldn’t I?” he countered. He took his right hand from the window frame and

brought it to her left breast, massaging her gently through the thin cotton of her bodice.

“You know damned well I would.”

She closed her eyes to the masterful touch that was kneading her flesh. As his

thumb passed over her straining nipple to tighten it to a hard little nub, she felt her

knees growing weak.

“I am claiming you for my own, Catherine Regina Brell,” he stated. “You are mine.”

“Bahru will—”

“Stand aside,” Khenty said. “He has no choice in the matter. Do you really think I

would allow that half man to touch you, Kate?” His hand molded firmly to her breast.

“To lie with you?” His lips moved across her shoulder as her head fell to one side to

allow him better access. “To put his limpid flesh into your hot sheath?”

Heat flamed up Catherine’s face at his bold words and she put up a hand to cover

his questing one, thinking to deny him this intimate touching, but once the dark, crisp

hairs on the back of his hand came into contact with her palm, she lost all resolve and

did nothing more than press his hand tighter to her flesh.

“I will tell him you are no longer his to abuse,” Khenty stated. “Your engagement to

the taricheutes is voided as of this moment.”

“Milord, you can’t—”

“I can and I have,” he replied, and took his left hand from the window to place it at

the junction of her thighs, his fingers sliding between her legs through the obstruction

of the fabric.

“Please!” she gasped, her legs threatening to give way. “We have only just met and

know nothing of one another. How can you make these assertions?”

“Quite easily, I assure you. I have taken from you twice. Once more is needed to

complete the ritual. Before the sun sets on another day, you will be completely mine in

soul and body,” he said, and removed his hands, stepping back so quickly, she

stumbled forward and had to reach out to grab the window frame to keep from falling.

She turned around to confront him but he was gone, having left as quickly and as

quietly as he had appeared.

“Ritual?” she repeated. “What ritual? What did you take from me?” She put a hand

to her neck where she had found two tiny punctures. She had thought them the night

work of a spider but now she was not so sure.

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Shades of the Wind

Chapter Seven

“Pay good heed to the weighing in the Balance of the heart of the Osiris, the young

woman of Basaraba, Beketaten, whose word is truth, and place thou her heart in the

seat of truth in the presence of the Great God,” Khenty said to the Assessor Gods. As he

came forward in the Hall of Two Truths at the sixth hour, he held the hand of a plainlooking woman in her mid twenties in his right hand and in his left he carried a golden

ankh. Upon his face he wore the glittering black mask of a dog, the adornment of his

office as a priest of the Great God Anubis.

The woman Beketaten was trembling as she stepped before the scales. Her heart lay

in an alabaster jar and it was placed upon one of the pans of the scales. On the other

scale was placed the Feather of Maat. With the golden ankh, Khenty nudged the scale in

the woman’s favor then stood back to await the Weighing of the Heart to determine if

she had led a pure and honest life. As the pan with the feather fell below that of the

woman’s heart, a collective sigh was heard throughout the cavern and Amemait, the

Devourer of Dead Souls, slipped silently away for there would be no need for her to

consume a guilty heart.

Khenty let go of the woman’s hand and stood back as Thoth recorded the judgment

upon his tablet. He listened as Baketaten greeted the forty-two assembled gods then

began her Negative Confessions.

“I have committed no evil upon men. I have not oppressed the members of my

family. I…”

On and on the confession went. The ritual seemed to take forever and there were

four more travelers yet to be led across the Celestial Waters of Nu in the papyrus boat

ferried by Mahaf within the next four days. Each trip, Aken, the custodian of the boat

would need to be awakened. It was a lengthy process that lasted until the first rays of

the sun struck in the east.

Khenty’s mind was not on the ceremony playing out before him, although he was

happy when Baketaten was finally allowed to begin her journey through the

underworld. He sighed and started back through the Hall of Two Truths, removing his

mask as he went.

He bowed respectfully to Ament, the goddess who watched over the gates of the

underworld and offered bread and water to the newly dead.

“You look tired, milord,” Ament said to him.

“It has been a long night, milady,” he replied, politely covering a yawn.

He spoke in passing to Aker, the first guardian of the gates, and then went over to

awaken Aken and Mahaf so he could be ferried home to Anubeion.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Grumbling, Aken gave his permission for Mahaf to take the boat before going back

to his comfortable bed.

The oily black waters slipped thickly beneath the boat’s keel as Khenty settled back

in the padded chair reserved for The Conductor of Souls. Beneath the craggy ceiling of

the cavern hideous creatures winged their way over the boat and carnivorous beasts too

horrible to name surfaced to snap at the passing craft. Along the stalactites and

stalagmites that pierced the roof and drove up through the filthy waters, serpents coiled

and slithered, hissed and struck at the two passengers. The leathery wings of the flyers

stirred the sulfurous, smoke-filled air to a choking muskiness that burned the eyes and

throat, making it difficult to draw breath in the heated atmosphere. It was a dark and

dismal place and filled with all manner of evil beings whose red eyes peered from the

darkness.

“A bad night is this one,” Mahaf said.

“A night to which I will rejoice bidding farewell,” Khenty said wearily. He closed

his eyes to the sinister sights surrounding him. He had seen the monsters thousands of

times, had smelled their vile breath and felt their damp oppression on his naked

shoulders but still it bothered him. As he had many times over the years, he wished it

had been his twin brother who had inherited the title of Lord of the Silent Lands of the

West and not him. But he was the elder of the two and—by right—had been thrust into

his position.

“There are many of our people who have gone to lands beyond our shores. Many are in the

hellish mountains of Diabolusia. I am sending you there to guide them safely home, my son,”

Khenty’s father had announced
. “You are their guardian. Keep vigilant watch over the burial

lands in the new world and see they are not desecrated.”

Khenty opened his eyes, ran a tired hand over his face. The boat was gliding over

cleaner water now and the air was not fouled by the evil breath of monstrous beasts. Off

to his left was the long serpentine pathway that led deep into Mount Muat where his

dead could lay untouched by robbers’ hands. Twelve Medjai warriors patrolled the

sanctuary of the dead at all times and any one who dared enter the holy caverns would

never see the light of day again. Silent as the grave itself the Medjai were almost

invisible, their black robes and obsidian blades blending in with the darkness

surrounding them.

Climbing out of the boat, Khenty glimpsed one of the stealthy warriors and knew

the man would not have allowed himself to be seen unless he wanted to speak with his

master. Dismissing Mahaf, Khenty walked along the shore, the waters lapping at his