City of the Dead by T. L. Higley Page A

realized in that moment that, in some deep part of myself, I had always believed that the gods would reward me for my integrity. That somehow, she would one day be mine.
    But it was never to be. Merit would not be mine.
    Regret, bitter as bile, rolled over me and threatened to gag me. I had not spoken my heart to her in so many years. Had she known that she still held every part of me in her delicate fingers?
    The kohl around her eyes had smeared in the water. I tried to wipe it away, to leave only the fragile lines she would have painted there herself. My hands trembled at her temples.
    I would not look at her disfigured hand, would not even acknowledge that such a thing had been done to her. The physicians would make it right. Do not think of it.
    I cradled her as the night passed, knowing it was for the last time, unwilling to say good-bye.
    She was as lovely in death as she had been in life, as she had been when we were all young. I traced the line of her jaw with my finger, then with hesitation and trembling I drew my face close to hers and touched her lips with my own. Gently at first, then with all the agony that ripped at my heart.
    Merit. Merit, I love you. I love you.
    The words pounded in my chest and kept tempo with the sobbing I could no longer restrain. The moon had risen high above us. The festival was perhaps just ending, and the partygoers would be stumbling back to their estates.
    My stomach curdled at the thought of Khufu, giddy with wine, being brought to Merit’s side. But there was no avoiding it. I could not keep the knowledge of her death from the king until morning.
    With the taste of her still on my lips, I dragged myself to my feet, then lifted Merit’s slight frame in my arms, with the gold mask and the reeds and the flower resting on her belly.
    The valley temple was not far, but it would be the longest walk of my life. I turned my feet toward it, and chose to fill my mind with thoughts of happier times.
    The years have changed us little, I believe. Even then, before Khufu wore the Double Crown, before we were all tainted withthe secret of that day, we were much like the selves we were to become …
    * * *
    The summer heat at Saqqara often is unbearable, and the royal family has adjourned northward for a month of playful respite. The Nile flows north like the arm of a man, reaching Saqqara at the wrist, then spreading into a many-fingered triangle in its flow to the Great Sea. In the midst of this marshy triangle, there is much good hunting. And at the edge, near the herds of longhorn cattle kept on the plains for royal use, is the summer estate of Khufu’s father, Sneferu.
    The sun burns hot this day, and the blood in our veins even hotter. We set out from the estate amid the protests of parents.
    “You disgrace yourself, my son!” Sneferu calls after Khufu, who mounts the back of a donkey as if he is a peasant slave. Khufu’s mother, Hetepheres, stands beside her husband, shaking her head and clucking her disapproval.
    The rest of us are also on donkeys, but it is Khufu who draws the attention. “It is not far, Father!” He laughs. “And there is no one but the marsh birds and hippos to see us!”
    My own father, Neferma’at, is there, having brought his family to spend the month with his brother, the king. He spreads his hands toward me. “Hemi, speak sense to your cousin. We can rely on you for decorum.”
    I glance at the others of our party, restless to set out. The pretty and flirtatious sisters, Amunet and Tamit. My brother, Ahmose,and my best friend, Mentu. And Merit, who watches me with a shy but amused smile.
    “We are only young for a short time, Father,” I call out. “Do not consign us so quickly to the boredom of your generation!”
    The rest of our group laughs with me, and I glance at Merit and straighten my shoulders. My father throws his hands into the air, as if to invoke the gods to speak to us.
    “At least take a servant with you,” my mother says.
    I look to