Wraiths of Time by Andre Norton Page B

induced!
    â€œThe dream is over, Great Lady.”
    â€œIt is.” Then Tallahassee realized that she had answered in the same tongue as the question had been asked.
    She was—she was Ashake of the Blood. But she was someone else, too. She frowned as she tried to fit one memory to another. Idia had hurried away, beyond the curtain. That machine, it was gone.
    This was—she sat up on the bed, discovering an odd weakness in her body, as if she had been ill and was just trying out her legs, having been bed-bound for some time. This was her room. She could look upon each item in it as old and long familiar, some cherished because of past associations. But those were of Ashake’s memories not hers, another part of her mind made haste to report. At least one fear she had held had not been realized—she, herself, had not lost her own identity, no matter how clearly she could now call upon a dead woman’s past recollections.
    Only … her head ached and she held it. So much … she needed time—time to sort out what lay there. And there had come fear with those memories, no longer for herself, but that fear which had been the Princess’s, the fear that had, at last, driven Ashake to take the dangerous venture which ended in her death.
    â€œIt is done?” It was not a statement but a question. Jayta entered the chamber with her swift, gliding step.
    â€œI remember—too much …” Tallahassee replied.
    â€œThere cannot be too much, Great Lady. For you have a part to play, not only before those who love you and wish you well, but also those who watch for that which can be used against you. We have less time than we thought. Also, there has been a spy beam set upon us, cutting us off from contact with the temple at New Napata. While the news the Prince General brought …”
    She paced up and down as might the lioness, which she had seemed in part to be at their first meeting, might do when pent within a cage. There was more than impatience in her expression. There rested there now an urgency approaching distress.
    â€œYou must listen to the Prince.” She turned abruptly once more to Tallahassee. “His spies have brought him news that is worse than ever we dreamed.”
    Herihor, Ashake’s memory identified the Prince. Not Jason—Herihor. He was of the Blood, but lesser, a leader of men who was general of the border forces to the north. And—he had been betrothed to Ashake from the time they were very young, though they could not wed until those of the Greater Learning allowed the Princess to retire from that service.
    â€œI—I cannot think clearly,” Tallahassee protested, rubbing the forehead of her aching head with the palms of both hands as if she could so banish the pain.
    â€œMakeda brings a healing draught. Drink it all, Great Lady. I wish you might indeed rest away this day. But time passes—we cannot now know what happens elsewhere while we are here. The Candace—there is a message that out-of-season storms in the desert lands prevent her flight back. She may be so late that the Half-Year Feast will be upon us before she arrives. The Prince General has sent two of his most trusted officers with messages for her. Neither has reported back. We are told all communications are affected by these storms. But those who handle the sending may well already be creatures of Userkof. May the jaws of Set open wide for him!”
    The under-priestess returned carrying a goblet and knelt to hand it to Tallahassee. She sniffed doubtfully at the odor of the colorless liquid, but memory sustained her guess that this was only a restorative.
    And Jason—Herihor—came even as she drank deeply, making a face at the bitter taste. His expression was set, and he did not meet her eyes, gazing over and beyond her. If he really cared for Ashake, and memory now insisted that he had, he must resent her. Tallahassee felt a faint regret about