Dragon Magic by Andre Norton Page A

notice of his surroundings, until, at last, he was shoved into a room so dark that when the door was closed he could not see. No longer having to display pride, the captive fell to his knees and then lay upon the floor, staring up into the pressing dark.
    The walls must be thick, it was so cool here.
    He wondered dully what would become of him now, whether he would end as one of the laborers who unloaded the ships. The slaves in Meroë, Napata—he had never considered them as people. They labored in the fields, or helped herd the cattle, or fetched and carried in the houses. But they had just been there, not of as much interest to their owners as a good hunting dog or a fine horse.

    Had those slaves—the Egyptians taken in earlier wars, the wild black men from the south, the handful of captured mercenaries (strange, with fair hair and light eyes)—had they hated his people as he hated his present captors?
    Far away was Napata, even farther Meroë. Perhaps he would never see them again, would be forced to live out his years in this hot, flat land. He closed his eyes and willed fiercely not to feel tears gather in them. He was Sherkarer, eldest son of the princess Bartare, of the blood of the great conqueror Piankhay, Pharaoh of the Two Lands, a noble of Nubia. But all that made no difference now. He was not a man grown, he was a boy who had not yet fronted a lion to be killed by his spear—and he was very much afraid.
    He started out of a half-doze of misery as the door scraped open and the brightness of sunshine cut across the floor. A young man stood there and Sherkarer had to look at him under a shielding hand against the glare which hurt his eyes. He was no guard, he did not even have a knife in the folds of the soft sash around his waist.
    On his cheeks was the beginning of a soft, curling beard, and his hair hung to his shoulders after the custom of these people—an unclean custom, for all men knew that it was better to shave head and body, and so keep fresher in the heat. The visitor was light of skin, too, lighter than an Egyptian. On his upper arms, between elbow and shoulder, he wore broad bands of silver. His sandals had colored toe and tie thongs, and his robe was blue, the sash woven of stripes, blue, green, yellow, with fringes at its ends.
    Sherkarer rubbed one hand about the tattooed Serpent on his wrist, his one remaining sign of what he was, for his body was only scantily covered with a slave’s waist-cloth. He stared defiantly up at the young man in that rich dress. What was he doing here?
    “I am named Daniel.” The young man spoke slowly, a little too loud, as if by that tone he could make a stupid stranger understand. Sherkarer did not resent his tone; he was too busy wondering if that odd name was really a name or some title among these barbarians. Did the newcomer expect him to throw himself on the floor and crawl?
    The young man had turned, was taking a bowl and a jug from someone behind him who was too much in the glare of the courtyard for the Nubian to see. With these in his hands he came farther into the room, holding them out to Sherkarer.
    “This is good.” Again he spoke slowly, distinctly. “Eat and drink, brother.”
    The Nubian made no move to accept what was offered. “I am not your brother.” He shaped the words with care, they were so different from either the Egyptian of the court or the Kushite tongue of the commoners.
    “I am Sherkarer, of the House of Piankhay!”
    “Of Piankhay I have heard,” the young man said. “He was king in Egypt once—”
    “Pharaoh of the Two Lands! As his kinsman is now in Napata, in Meroë, in Nubia.” Then he remembered only too well that in Napata there was now only death left.
    “In Babylon there is only the Great King, Nebuchadnezzar,” Daniel answered. Though once in Jerusalem there was Jehoiakim of Judah, and then Zedekiah, who is now blind and captive here, to be mocked by the Great King. Kings are not always blessed with good