Magic and Mathematics Book One: Ancient Science

By K. J. Hargan

Iounelle Wendralorn, the last elf in existence has been chasing The Two for thousands of years. At the building of the Great Pyramid in Egypt, she may have finally cornered them. Or have they finally cornered her? Hundreds of years later Mót, the leader of The Two, guides Iounelle to Athens, Greece to help him recover his partner from a deranged cult. But who will pay the greatest price? And lastly, Iounelle finds herself unable to abandon a human family in Syracuse as the Romans are about to attack, just as Mot and his mysterious partner arrive to sway the looming battle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K. J. Hargan
• Release date: May 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370811632

K. J. Hargan

Author of the novel series: The Wealdland Stories: The Last Elf of Lanis, The Archer From Kipleth, The Lord of Lightning, and Legends of Haergill and Conniker's Tale The Chronicles of the Elf Human Wars: Berand Fool and the soon to be released Mathematics and Magic: Ancient Science

Book preview

Chapter One

Two Libraries

330 BCE

Heliodoros pushed the sheaf of writing aside. The answer was not there. Nor was it on the dust-choking shelves, nor between the leather covers of the cryptically scribbled tomes, nor in the towers of scrolls, nor hidden in the seemingly unending stacks of papyri. The answer was not anywhere in the gloom-shadowed Library of Alexandria.

He slumped in the ornate chair reserved for special guests of the new building. He bowed his head, his curly mop of black hair falling forward. The dismal light of the massive hall was oppressive. Heliodoros had to get out. What he needed wasn’t on the cluttered racks or buried in the stacks of documents of this great library. It was out there.

Someone had either taken or destroyed the scrolls he sought. He would become the laughing stock of Athens if he never completed the history he had so proudly promised, the shrouded legend of the mysterious stranger, the goddess of eternal youth, who had come to this dark land so long ago.

And, it wasn’t just the gloom. It was also the noise. The constant sound of Egyptian masons trimming, lifting, fitting, and setting stones seemed to resound throughout the city. The noise of work filled the whole of Egypt.

When Heliodoros came here, a year ago, as part of the Alexander’s ambitious plan to make this country the greatest center of learning in the world, he was amazed that in every city and village he came to, there was some sort of structure being erected or torn down.

Heliodoros smiled to himself. He knew what it was. The Egyptians had created one of the marvels of the world, the Great Pyramid. And now with pride in such imposing monuments, Egyptians had a reputation to uphold as the world’s best builders.

And so, everyone in Egypt built. They built mausoleums. They built palaces. They built lecture halls. They built temples. They built promenades, and mansions, and terraced gardens. And now the Egyptians had begun the great, grand library ordered by their newest and most beloved Pharaoh, Alexander of Macedonia.

Heliodoros made his way to the massive entrance of the Library. He smiled to himself. They had renamed the city after the Macedonian, such was the love the Egyptians had for their new, Hellene Pharaoh. And, irritatingly, the adoration for everything Hellene had contaminated the land, including Heliodoros himself. The scholar from Athens was fawned over and pampered everywhere he went because of the new king.

The Egyptian house where Heliodoros boarded had turned him into the local spectacle of the neighborhood. Common Egyptians crowded the windows of Djut Sana’s house to watch Heliodoros eat. All of the attention was turning him into a crabby old man at only twenty-five years of age.

An Egyptian librarian smiled at Heliodoros as he passed. Heliodoros stopped and turned to the weathered old man.

Those scrolls I asked for are still missing?

The old man smiled apologetically and shrugged.

It was like a conspiracy. He knew those scrolls were here. Or, they had been here. The catalogues listed them. But, now they were gone without a trace.

He knew there were secret societies here in Egypt, just as there were secret conclaves in any nation to which a person might travel. He, himself, was a subscriber of the Mysteries of Demeter. But, that didn’t make him hide valuable texts from other scholars. Heliodoros grunted to himself. There was something going on. He could feel it.

Then there was that eerie sensation that eyes are upon one’s person. Heliodoros turned, and caught a librarian stealthily moving behind a tall rack of rolled papyrus. This was too much.

Heliodoros strode towards the rack and roughly pulled the elderly librarian from behind a cart filled with texts.

Were you spying on me? Heliodoros demanded. Then, he instantly felt foolish. Everyone in Egypt was spying on someone. This was the Land of Intrigue. I apologize, Heliodoros mumbled, and let go of the old man’s arm.

He was a step away, when the old man hissed, You seek texts that have been stolen from the library.

Heliodoros was stunned. He slowly turned. You said ‘stolen’?

Perhaps a harsh word, the old librarian whispered. They were removed for safety.

Heliodoros bent in close to the old man. I knew it! Where are they? May I see them?

The old librarian looked about with fear. Do you know where the Macedonian was revealed?

Heliodoros knew the old man was referring to the oasis far to the west of the Nile Delta. Called the Field of Trees, Shet-imew was the place where Alexander had been declared a divine reincarnation of the Pharaohs of old by the Oracle of Amun. It was commonly called Siwa. Heliodoros nodded.

Seek the woman who tends the library there, the old man said, and then carefully moved away as if he had not spoken to the Hellene.

But, there is no longer a library at Siwa, Heliodoros said with puzzlement. They brought every book and paper here. Just as they have done with every other library in the land. The old man moved away, losing himself in the gloom of the unending collection, and the mad motion of construction.

There is no library at Siwa, Heliodoros said again to himself.

And, in that instant he knew he had to go there.

A young man with carefully coifed curls, the latest Hellene style, grabbed Heliodoros by the arm.

Have you heard? the young man cried with joy.

No, Scythas, Heliodoros groaned. Of course you have heard the most important news first, as always. Glory and honor to you. What is it?

Darius is vanquished!

Heliodoros stood staring at Scythas in the dimness of the library. The words didn’t seem to make any sense.

Darius of Persia…?

Alexander has defeated Persia!

But, how? When?

Less than thirty days ago, Scythas said with a glowing smile. Alexander marched on Persepolis and it fell. Darius is vanquished, and Alexander of Macedonia is now the ruler of the known world!

There are other nations that are known to us, Heliodoros said with a wave of his hand, his mind racing.

The news is just reaching the streets of Alexandria, Scythas beamed. The Egyptians will have festivals for weeks!

Yes, yes, Heliodoros muttered. He knew he had to get away immediately, or he would never be allowed to travel to the oasis in the far western desert. Scythas, Heliodoros turned with sudden conviction. Have you told Harpalos the news yet?

I was looking to tell him next, Scythas said. But Heliodoros, you do not seem overjoyed as you should be. Oh! I almost forgot! Nomarch Cleomenes wants to convene all Hellene citizens at once in the capital Memphis for a massive feast! Oh! But he wants to make the announcement here at the library, so you can just wait here.

That is what I will do, Heliodoros lied. Now you see if you can find Harpalos as quick as you can.

You will wait right here for us? Scythas trotted away, looking over his shoulder for confirmation from Heliodoros.

Heliodoros pointed at the ground beneath his feet as though he was going to stay nailed to that very spot. Once Scythas was out of sight, Heliodoros ran as fast as he could for his lodgings in the House of old Djut Sana to pack his clothing and belongings for his long trip west.

* * *

It was simple enough to employ guides to make the arduous journey. Heliodoros often walked alongside the litter that they carried for him to ride in. He liked the exercise, and knew it quickened the pace of the litter-bearers. Heliodoros didn’t have much time. He could feign ignorance of state mandated festivals for only so long.

It seemed a great blessing at first, Heliodoros’ ability to pick up foreign languages with such ease. But, more importantly, it was the written word at which he excelled. He could read and write fluently eleven languages, including the most difficult of all, Egyptian hieroglyphs. And, not only could Heliodoros read and write the language of the nation of the Nile, but he could read and write the many dialects and ages of Egyptian pictographs.

So, when the great library was announced, it was a foregone conclusion that he would be there at its inception. But, Heliodoros had no warning of how extensive the conceived project was going to be. The aspiration was mad, ludicrous. They were going to collect every book, scroll, or scrap of text in the world, or make a copy if such materials were unavailable for acquisition. Everything.

The project of the Great Library grew every day. He had to translate text after text. Heliodoros had his heart set on writing his comprehensive history of a certain unending goddess that lurked in the dim past of Egyptian records and comparing that myth with the current Hellene goddess of eternal youth, Io.

There were delays and difficulties in completing his masterwork with the aggravating complexity of arraigning such a huge venture as the Library was becoming. Texts, books, and scrolls were constantly lost or misfiled. But, in Heliodoros’ case, it had begun to feel as though it was crucial for someone, or some group, to specifically prevent him from finishing his personal work. Heliodoros huffed to himself. He was letting this dark land get under his skin.

Heliodoros journeyed westward, with twenty Egyptian guides and porters, two camels, and three goats for twelve days along the coast of the Mediterranean Sea. It was easiest to trek along the coastline of northern Africa to the small fishing town of Amunia, and then head south for the oasis. It was not impossible to travel directly over the roasting sands of the Great Desert on a straight line from Alexandria. Although it cut off several days of travel, that route was considered folly for any but the most desperate.

Luckily, Heliodoros and his caravan met no soldiers or sentries of the neighboring Libyan Kingdom, or marauding Berbers. No doubt they had heard of the Macedonian’s great victory against Persia and were eager to keep a low profile, lest they become the next target of conquest.

Once they turned south, the travel through the desert was excruciating. And, although he felt guilty about it, Heliodoros mostly rode in the litter to escape the oppressive heat of the African desert sun. The sea of sand seemed endless and only the diabolically insane would risk crossing directly from the east, or the west for that matter.

Camping at night, the desert became dangerously cold. But the hardy Egyptians brought blankets and tents. They roasted one of the goats, and Heliodoros, probably because not one person of the caravan had eaten for two days to conserve supplies, thought it was the most delicious thing he had ever eaten.

As the frigid nights passed, they played flutes, small drums, and three-stringed harps. Clapping in time to the wild and exotic music quickly warmed the blood. The stars of the desert sky burned like mad candles in the black heavens of the night.

After another twelve days of seemingly endless trekking across the featureless expanse of sand, they topped a rise, and a shallow valley became visible to the south. In the golden light of the dying day, a scattered patchwork of meager farms and many stands of palm trees spread out at the oasis of Siwa.

There was a cluster of about eighty mud-brick dwellings shouldered together around a few stone buildings in what had to be the main village. The spirits of the guides lifted and they began to sing a repetitive chant to the camels and the two remaining goats to quicken their pace.

The guides began to babble to each other with such a quick, relieved and happy tongue. Heliodoros wasn’t sure if they were speaking some strange, secret language. He caught himself. No more suspicion, he thought. There are no hidden cults out to get me.

The caravan marched right to the center of town, where they discovered another caravan that had come directly from the east, and had arrived only an hour earlier. Everyone in the little oasis was scurrying about, both excited and irritated with the sudden wealth of visitors.

With night closing in, the guides escorted Heliodoros to the local inn where he found Harpalos and Scythas, still dirty, dusty, and sweating, sitting on a carpet and leaning over a small table with mugs of chilled tea. They both burst into wide grins when they saw Heliodoros, who was extremely annoyed.

Praise Zeus, Athena, and Ares, Scythas cried. You are alive!

Why would I not be alive?’ Heliodoros muttered. I took the sensible, safer route."

You disappeared so quickly, intoned Harpalos, we were concerned that you had been taken by bandits for ransom. And so we hurried as rapidly as possible to this forsaken place to confirm, to our own relief, that you are safe and sound.

Heliodoros studied Harpalos. His friend had sparse, balding, light brown hair. His face was lean and sullen. But, Heliodoros knew if you got enough wine into the man from Hellenic Thebes that he would become very merry indeed.

Well, here I am, said Heliodoros as he sat next to his friends. Everyone happy? What are we drinking? I am as parched as a man can possibly be.

It is a date palm tea, Scythas said wrinkling up his nose at his mug. It is vile, but it is wet. Harpalos raised his hand to the innkeeper to order another mug for Heliodoros.

Are there rooms? Heliodoros asked. "Did you secure rooms yet?

There is only one, Scythas pretended to be disgusted. "We can share it. I do not find you two too repulsive." Harpalos pretended to be offended and the three friends fell to laughing. As the Hellenes shared the joke and pushed each other about, Heliodoros noticed that Harpalos’ tunic slide to the side and a strange brand was revealed on his inner thigh. It was a mark he had never seen before, not that he made a habit of studying other men’s legs.

He was about to ask about it when a withered old Egyptian approached the table. He pointed at Heliodoros. Come, come, the old man demanded in mangled Hellene.

I think we are about to discover the great secret that drove our friend out into the Wastes, Scythas said with a conspiratorial wink to Harpalos.

Heliodoros knew his friends would make any study impossible, but he knew that it would be just as impossible to prevent their accompanying him. Very well, Heliodoros said with a little groan of weariness as he rose. It seems I am expected. Let us go, he said to the old man.

The three friends joked and rudely called out interesting features of the village to each other as they stepped out the door of the inn into the suddenly bustling street.

I want to find the Oracle of Amun, Harpalos merrily said. I want to find out if I can be a god, too, just like our Macedonian King.

The three laughed as they pushed through the crowds.

Oh, Scythas admonished, you know that oracle nonsense is just a snare to separate foreigners from their money. Scythas laughed at Harpalos’ shame, but Heliodoros was more annoyed than pleased with his friends. Why had they come all this way? Would he be able to find the purported library with these two scoundrels dogging his heels?

There were about two hundred residents in the little oasis, including the newly arrived caravans, and it seemed that everybody was out in the few streets of the village as night fell.

Now look here, Harpalos said to Heliodoros as they perused the unusual market stalls along the bustling streets. After this, I want to go to Memphis. I do not have the money to affect such a trip, so do not go and ruin the opportunity for me. Do not offend the Nomarch, yes?

Heliodoros smiled and didn’t engage his friend, because he had no intention of ever setting foot in Memphis. Heliodoros knew what a morass the capital had become. A man could lose his life in the endless machinations and politics of the capital of Egypt. No. Better to chase after phantom libraries in the desert.

The three Hellenes were pushed about and jostled to a surprisingly escalating degree. Heliodoros felt rough hands pull him away from his friends, and whisk him away down a side street. Heliodoros was about to call out, but realized that the old man was with the other two men who had a hold of each arm. The old man pressed a gnarled finger to his lips, and Heliodoros nodded. He didn’t want his friends along if he was allowed to study forbidden scrolls, and those who apparently wished for him to see them felt the same.

Heliodoros could hear the fading, confused voices of Harpalos and Scythas calling for him amid the animated, rising shouts of the villagers, whom Heliodoros realized were all in on the ruse. The Hellene started to smile until he became aware of how serious his situation was, as an entire village seemed to be working in coordination.

Possibly one of his friends was suspected by the villagers to be an enemy, or the villagers didn’t want his friends to see how he, Heliodoros, was to be dispatched. Either scenario meant grave consequences, and Heliodoros suddenly became soberly grim.

He was roughly escorted through a darkened doorway into what seemed a small mud-brick house. An old woman patiently sat waiting in a single room, furnished with only a chair, a table, and an oil lamp made of clay. She rose when Heliodoros arrived, and instructed the other three in a language that the he didn’t recognize.

So, there is a secret tongue, he thought to himself.

The two that had a hold of Heliodoros’ arms suddenly gripped them tight. The old man that had led Heliodoros lifted up the Hellene’s tunic.

Wait, wait! Heliodoros cried.

The old woman held the lamp near Heliodoros’ legs and inspected his thighs. She nodded and the two holding Heliodoros released him.

What was all that about? Heliodoros demanded.

The old woman gently took Heliodoros hand and led him to a disguised door at the back of the little house. Once through, he saw that the deceptively small space was actually a foyer to an adjoining, much larger, hidden building, the secret Library of Siwa. The roof of the library was unnaturally high as if to accommodate a giant.

The old woman lifted her clay oil lamp so that Heliodoros could see the racks and racks of stored scrolls waiting in the darkness.

You want to know the history of the Endless One? the old woman croaked.

Very much, Heliodoros said with respect, trying to hold his excitement in check.

Her history is protected from the followers of Amun, the old woman said.

I do not know this cult.

It is good that you do not. For, to identify one of the Slaves of Amun means death.

The old woman gently led Heliodoros to a beautifully carved table with a padded chair. A heap of scrolls had been carefully selected and sorted for his reading. Heliodoros could feel his mouth watering. He was hungry for food, but that hungriness was instantly gone with his insatiable hunger for knowledge. He sat.

I start here? He indicated the first scroll on the top of the arraigned pile.

You can read these?

Yes, Heliodoros’ voiced cracked with eagerness.

You can take nothing from here, the old woman said with a seriousness that was not to be questioned. And, when you are done, you may never speak of these things.

I will not, Heliodoros lied.

The old woman smiled and gestured that the Hellene was welcome to begin.

Heliodoros gently lifted the first scroll from the stack and positioned it before him.

Chapter Two

The Black Land

2560 BCE

In Pharaoh Khnum-Khufu’s twenty-third year of reign, the Endless One came to the Black Land.

She, the Endless One, had been slowly moving down the Mother Nile for many years, careful of every footfall as she knew a great trap awaited her.

From the west, the Endless One had walked, for many years, alone across the Great Sea of Sand. She had come from the Kingdom of Kerma, where she had moved secretly for over fifty years, to the place where the Blue Nile and the White Nile diverge, then north to the town of Swenett, the frontier of the Black Land, so named for the goddess of birth and beginnings.

There, the Endless One sought out the Nomarch’s Chief Scribe, for she knew that he took no part in the growing, secret Cult of Amun that thirsted for her blood. She needed information and help, and so she sought out the most honest man in Egypt.

* * *

Khun Dafre-Thoth woke in the middle of his afternoon nap to find a long, narrow, shining blade at his throat. A voice hissed at him to remain silent.

Are you Khun Dafre-Thoth? the shadowed figure crouching over him asked.

Yes, Khun answered.

I was sent by Bendalosabe from the Kingdom of Kerm to find you, the hooded figure whispered.

Then after you strike off my head, Khun sadly whispered back, strike my heart in two for it is already thoroughly broken. I thought Bendalosabe a friend and a good man.

"He is the only good man in Kerm. Do you serve the Two? Do you serve Amun?"

I serve Thoth, as my name reveals. Although, I think the gods ask too much of mortal man, and, hence, I may be lax in much of my religious obligations. Are you going to kill me now?

The darkened intruder suddenly pulled up Khun’s tunic exposing his legs. Khun was momentarily excited, but his imminent peril kept him from being aroused. The stranger made an assessment, and then rearranged his clothing.

The shadowed figure pulled back her hood to reveal a face so white and fair that it glowed like an alabaster lamp. The female stared at Khun with piercing sea-green eyes. She was beautiful and looked to be no more than thirty years old. Khun caught his breath.

Are you a goddess?

Never call me that, the woman said with a sudden ferocity. I live and breathe as any mortal does. I need to eat and drink, and relieve myself as any made of flesh.

Khun noticed that the female wore both a hood and a simple cowl that covered her ears. The effect of both the hood and the headdress made her face float like a full moon in a sea of darkness.

What is your name? Khun asked, surprised at his own boldness and suddenly, acutely aware of his instant fascination with this strange woman.

I have had many names, in many ages, she answered. I have been called Tiamat, Istar, and Wu Tien. Your people first knew me as Hathor when I came through this area ten thousand years ago, and then Sekhmet only more recently. But, the name my parents gave to me was Iounelle.

Khun blinked. He couldn’t fathom the difficult name she had just pronounced, and he feared, as all good Egyptians did, the vengeful goddess Sekhmet. But, he recognized Hathor, the goddess of healing, water, love, and life. And so, out of the fear that he acknowledged to himself, he thought of her as Hathor, in the hopes that she would be kind to him.

You said you are not a god. Yet you name yourself as such, and then admit to being thousands of years old. How am I to comprehend this, Hathor?

Bendalosabe said you are the only honest man in Egypt, Khun Dafre-Thoth. I wish to be just as honest with you. I do not know why I have lived so long. But, I am from an ancient race. I hope I do not frighten you, but I am not human. If I take my sword away, will you call your servants, whom I hear in the other room?

Khun gently pushed her blade away and sat up. He was completely smitten and fascinated. No, he answered.

Good, Hathor said. I am in desperate need of your help. I must travel to Memphis to slay the Pharaoh, but the way will be laid with many traps, ending with some truly horrible, great trap at the end of the journey. Will you help me?

Khun gulped. Slay the Pharaoh…?

The person you think is Khnum Khufu is not Khnum Khufu. He is a hundred thousand years old and his name is Mót. He was once my adopted son.

Khun instinctively reached for a quill, ink, and papyrus. I must write this down. If I dream, it is the most exquisite dream ever dreamt.

Hathor quickly leaned forward and squeezed Khun’s forearm until he winched. He was astonished at her strength.

You are in no dream, Khun Dafre-Thoth. And you have no time to write. Hathor rose and looked about Khun’s sleeping chamber.

Bright shafts of light peeked through gaps in the heavy curtains covering every window to keep out the heat of the midday.

In Khun’s bedroom there was only a mat for sleeping in the style of the culture that dictated that a residence must have very little furniture. Yet, the High Scribe’s sleeping chamber was stuffed with parchments and scrolls. Stacks and stacks of papyrus sheets, bundled with twine and gathered in huge mounds in every corner of the room.

You have read all these?

"I have written most of these," Khun sniffed with pride.

Then you are a man who seeks knowledge, Hathor said. She turned to fix him with a stare. If you help me, Khun Dafre-Thoth, you will find knowledge, more knowledge than you ever dared dream. I ask again, will you help me?

She had offered the one thing that Khun could not resist. He slowly nodded his head in assent.

They spent the rest of the day and that night quietly planning their trip to Memphis.

The next day, in the front courtyard of the High Scribe’s mansion, Puhd-hin turned in frantic circles. His perfectly ordered world was in shambles.

No warning! Puhd-hin growled to himself in a shrill voice, his corpulent body shaking. He caught a cooking servant holding several chickens by the throat. Not like that! He bellowed. Then he muttered, This is madness. The Master of the Swenett Nomarch’s High Scribe’s House then spotted his master.

Lord Khun! Puhd-hin cried. This is impossible! The arraignments are too great! The whole world is falling into destruction!

Khun turned to look at his Overseer with disapproving affection. Destruction? Khun asked with one, perfectly groomed, raised eyebrow.

Well, Puhd-hin sputtered, his large, dark hands nervously gesturing. This type of trip takes months of planning.

"Are we not in akhet? Khun referenced the season of Nile flooding. Is this not the perfect time of year to travel north?"

Yes, but—

May I not check on my daughter if I so please?

No, but—

Have I stores enough to travel? Have I not the second finest bark in Swenett? The Nomarch, of course, had the finest.

Yes, but—

Then, I would like to travel before the sun is at its highest.

But, but— Puhd-hin stuttered. Have you received permission from Nomarch Kunum-Semer?

Khun, who was about to leave to check on other preparations turned back. Do I need his permission? Puhd-hin was caught. Of course the Nomarch’s permission was needed for anything that happened in the nome. The question was, did the High Scribe need to go to the Nomarch and ask, as the High Scribe was nearly as powerful, some would say even more powerful. Puhd-hin made little circles in the air with his hands while his mouth opened and closed like a landed fish.

You can go and ask him if you like, Khun softly said.

Puhd-hin instantly realized that he had gone too far in challenging his master. He threw himself at Khun’s feet.

Forgive me High Scribe of Swenett! Puhd-hin shrieked with a little bit of genuine terror. I have exceeded the bounds of my station! Pull out my entrails and feed them to the Sand Demons of the Red Land of Set!

Khun laughed and pulled his Overseer to his feet. Just make sure that we can sail before noon with enough provisions for a three week trip. Khun affectionately patted the Master of his House on the top of his head and then turned and went back into his mansion.

But your daughter only lives in Waset, Puhd-hin said to himself. Why do you need so many supplies?

Pud-hin spied a servant clumsily carrying a large, ceramic jar and spilling grain. Careful with that! Puhd-hin cried, flapping after the negligent bearer.

Khun made his way to his bedroom on the second floor. He kept the door locked and the curtains drawn. His eyes adjusted as he entered. His simple sleeping chamber was cast into a deep gloom despite the bright summer morning.

Hathor hunched in the corner, quickly scanning scroll after scroll.

Great Hathor, Khun said to her. We will be able to leave in no more than an hour.

The strange visitor turned to fix Khun with her sea green eyes. Good, was all she said as she continued to read the scrolls at an astounding pace.

Have you found it? Khun carefully asked.

Your writing was difficult to learn at first, Hathor said, ignoring his question. But, it has its excellent points. There is great power in the written word.

You have read all these? Khun was amazed at the pile that Hathor had set aside.

And those, she nodded to two other stacks of papyrus. Khun shook his head in disbelief. Then a thought sparked in his mind.

No! he softly cried to himself. It was here. Khun scuttled to a pile of papers across the room. Of course! It was here in the collections of my grandfather! Khun tore into several large packets that were tied with twine. Hathor was instantly at his side.

It will be at the bottom, Khun said as both he and Hathor ruffled through the pages.

Ah! Khun cried. Here it is! He read from the top of the uncovered page. "In the twelfth year of King Narmer the god Set and his wife Mut came to Waset. They sought a piece of writing that was older than the earth. The writing was in a hand unknown to the people of the Black Land. Yet Mut could read this writing. Scribe Larus paid with his life when he recorded Mut’s translation of the words. But his son kept a copy to defy the god of the Red Land."

Khun tapped the parchment. This is it! he quietly cried to Hathor.

This Mut is obviously Mót, Hathor frowned. And this Set must be his traveling companion. These are The Two I have chased through the centuries.

But Mut is female, Khun said with puzzlement. Mut is the goddess mother of all.

Mót has dressed as a female many times to try to throw me off the trail, Hathor replied with a sneer. Is the ancient translation included?

Khun scanned the document. "Ah! Here! ‘…that summer a human named Kimmit was taken into the…’ the rest was unreadable. But, Larus indicates that Mut thought the next word read was ‘ship’. Khun read a little further. It says here that Mut and Set then sought this magical vessel that took the unsuspecting passenger, Kimmit. Khun looked up at Hathor. It makes no sense. Are they speaking of traveling through the Land of the Dead?"

I am not sure, Hathor frowned.

A rap sounded at the door. Master? Puhd-hin called from the hall.

One moment, Khun answered. He turned to Hathor. "How do I explain you as a traveler on my bark?’

Does not your elderly great Aunt, who moved to Kerm and has just now returned, not want to also visit your daughter?

Khun smiled. Cover up, he said, for you are very vain and do not wish the servants to gaze in stupid wonder at your many wrinkles.

Hathor shared a quiet laugh with Khun, as she pulled her hood low over her face.

Enter, Khun commanded the Master of his House.

Chapter Three

The Thin Line of Life

Hathor sat with Khun at the bow where the gentle breezes were softest and most refreshing. Twenty sturdy oarsmen, ten in front of the enclosed litter at the center of the boat and ten behind it, dipped their broad, leaf-shaped oars into the muddy waters of the Nile in unison to the rhythmic chants of Harduk, the bark’s Captain.

It seemed as though the oarsmen needed no effort to move the long boat since it was the flooding season, and the mighty river pushed the craft along with a will. The single large sail was kept furled. With the river swiftly moving the boat north to the Delta, it mattered not which way the wind decided to blow.

At the stern of the long boat, Puhd-hin fretted next to Harduk, casting frustrated glances at his master and his cloaked ‘Great Aunt’ who sat closely together at the front of the boat, pouring over stacks of papyrus and conversing in unintelligible whispers. It annoyed Puhd-hin to no end that his master and his guest did not travel in the comfortable litter at the center of the vessel as tradition demanded.

Puhd-hin finally could not contain himself. He jostled his way through the rows of oarsmen, past the raised platform in the middle of the bark where his master and his guest should have been sitting, to the small area at the front, where a wooden lotus seemed to grow out of the front of the boat and bend back towards the oarsmen. The clever, lotus shaped device reflected the sound of Harduk’s rowing chants back to the oarsmen. But, it also made it impossible for Puhd-hin to hear even the faintest whisper of his master and his guest.

May I serve wine, or perhaps some honeyed dates? Puhd-hin offered, hoping to catch a snippet of conversation. The Great Aunt bowed her head and pulled her covered arms and gloved hands in to more thoroughly hide herself.

No thank you, Khun waved his hand in dismissal without looking up, his head studiously bent over a stack of bound papyrus.

My master says you worry about the lines of age, Puhd-hin said in a falsely sweet voice to the ‘Great Aunt’. I know of some excellent salves— Puhd-hin reached for Hathor’s hood.

The stranger moved with the quickness of a cobra to seize Puhd-hin’s inquisitive hand. Puhd-hin winced in pain.

Please do not do that, Hathor whispered from the shrouds of her disguise. She released Puhd-hin, who snatched his hand back like a frightened child. He tried to furiously massage away the pain, an outraged look of indignity playing across his plump face.

Please leave us, Master of My House, Khun said with tempered anger, half rising.

Puhd-hin was political and savvy enough to know to his place, and knew that he had stepped over a social boundary. A thousand pardons, Puhd-hin whimpered, holding the hand that Hathor had squeezed. I am a degenerate who does not deserve your love, Puhd-hin bowed and shuffled backwards, bumping and jostling oarsmen as he retreated. I should be thrown overboard and fed to Sobek the alligator god at once! Puhd-hin cried as he made his way to cower behind Harduk, who gave him no mind.

Khun turned back to Hathor. I apologize, he said to her. I will leave him off the boat at Waset if you wish.

It does not matter to me, she answered. I am more concerned with that black bark that has been following us since we left your private boat slip back in Swenett, Hathor added without looking back.

Khun nearly toppled over the edge as he quickly rose to spot the boat that Hathor indicated over her right shoulder with a nod. Hundreds of cubits behind Khun’s boat a sleek, black bark leisurely cut the water like a slow knife trailing after a hapless victim.

It might be a coincidence, Khun nervously said as he sat. Hathor said no more. But, Khun could see a vicious smile on her face behind her veil. He thought of some way to ease her troubled mind. In the short time that he knew her, Khun knew that this person who called herself Hathor was plagued by demons of the mind. Her eyes always moved about looking for assassins in the shadows She twitched her head as though she had hearing more sensitive than any other, hearing whispers of threats and conspiracies. Khun felt sorry for this strange person.

Consider our Mother, the Nile, Khun said hoping to divert her attention and ease her seeming constant torment. The river is a thin line of life. See, just past the farms that crowd the Black Land, the water margin, is the Red Land, empty sand, death, starvation and thirst. Every year our Mother brings us water and mud that makes our farms grow and flourish. A calm mind is like the land along our Nile. It can be fed with nourishing learning and enlightenment like the waters of a generous river.

Hathor smiled. We have a saying of my race, from so long ago. Life is like water. It separates, on a thousand journeys, and then joins back together. Our farewells always hoped that those you left behind would be joined with you once again in the Waters of Life.

See! Khun cried pointing.

Hathor turned to catch a large ibis rising from its hiding place in the wild rushes growing along the riverbank. As though suspended in time, the white wings of the bird glowed above its black head as the sun shone through each gorgeous, translucent feather of the ibis’ spreading wings.

There is water in life and, as you said, life is the water, Khun mused.

Then Hathor turned sober, and looked down at the pile of parchments between them. We had just got to the part where this particular scribe beheld a dark ritual of Djoser, whom I know was Mót.

Before I return to the text, I must ask, Khun scratched his shaved head. You say that Khufu, our living Pharaoh is this Mót person, and that his father Senefru was this Mót person. But also that his great, great grandfather Djoser, of whom we now read, is also this Mót person.

Because he never dies, Hathor patiently explained. He sets himself up as his own son to continue his reign without arousing suspicion or fomenting revolt. He has done this for many thousands of years, in many different kingdoms.

"But he travels with this other one. Why not make him his false son and then trade off down the ages."

I do not know why he has not done this, Hathor said. Mót keeps his protégé out of the public eye. There is something he fears about his companion, or there is something he fears that might be discovered about him.

And that is why he is called Amun, the Hidden One.

Yes, Hathor said. She tapped the papyrus scrolls. Continue.

"Djoser spoke the words and waved his jeweled fingers in the air—"

Does it describe the jewels? Hathor interrupted.

Khun leafed back through the pages. Only one. A yellow, triangular cut diamond.

My mother’s ring, Hathor said with evident pain. If you ever see anyone wear this ring, you may be assured that it is Mót, and that your life is in danger. Please continue.

"A crack appeared amidst the very air. Djoser reached into the crack, and behold, when he withdrew his hand, he possessed a golden dagger."

So that is how old Summeninquis lost the Dagger of Enon Toth, Hathor said to herself. She leaned forward. "The Dagger of Enon Toth is from the Second Age and filled with arcane power. He who draws and returns the dagger to its sheath can break the will of almost any human. The Dagger of Enon Toth was a dark and horrendous tool used against Berand Torler in the Elf Human Wars, waged long before I was born.

This is how Mót, as Khufu, has built his mighty pyramid that has become the talk of all the world. With this dagger, Mót has compelled the thousands who slave under his whip.

It has been a mystery to us as to why we work so hard for the Pharaoh, Khun muttered. All Egyptians are taxed with labor for the king, but some go to Memphis and work themselves to death. But, why does he build this supposed funeral monument if he never dies?

That I do not know, Hathor answered. He has built many similar structures around the world, for thousands of years. I believe he uses them, but for what, I can only guess.

How can we hope to stop him if he can mold the will of any human with this dagger?

I am not human, Hathor said from beneath the darkness of her hood, her green eyes burning bright.

My master! Puhd-hin cried from the middle of the boat, as he dared approached no closer. We are close to the port of Nekhen. Please tell me that we will not pass through this nome and rudely ignore the Nomarch!

We continue on to Waset without stopping, Khun commanded.

My master. I can understand passing the nome of Bendet, as our dear neighbor is so tolerant. And, I will never be able to explain to my counterpart in Nubt why we passed by and did not stop. But, now I must suffer the indignities that will be heaped on my head by the masters of Nekhen as well?

Khun stood. We continue on to Waset without stopping.

Puhd-hin opened and closed his mouth like a baby bird begging for food. The Master of the High Scribe’s House abruptly turned and rushed to stand behind the boat’s captain. Puhd-hin appeared to shake with weeping.

Khun watched the black boat pace behind his bark without ceasing. The black vessel did not turn aside at Nubt or Bendet. Surely they will stop at Nekhen, Khun thought to himself. The night is falling and only mad men like me will continue on into the night.

Khun spoke much more with Hathor as night fell. Soon they passed the busy city of Nekhen with many cheerful torches illuminating its red sandstone walls. The massive fortress in the center of the pleasant town, built so long ago, was easy to see from the waters of the Nile. Harduk’s