Spell Bound (A Fairy Retelling #3) Read online

  Copyright Notice

  Copyright ©2016 by Dorian Tsukioka. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Those who flagrantly disregard this copyright notice may find themselves devoured by the Egyptian demon, Ammit. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s wild imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

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  Copyright Notice

  PART ONE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  PART TWO

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  Glossary

  Author’s Notes

  ONE

  Save for a few men straggling home after a long day of work, the streets of Waset are nearly empty. Torchlight spills into the streets where the heat still sizzles off sandy paths, though the sun set long ago. As the girl makes her way through the city, the sound of her sandals slapping the ground is overpowered by the yelling of men. She picks up her pace and runs toward them coming to a stop beside a walled-in vineyard next to a public house. Inside, men drink away the harshness of the day’s work and gamble away the day’s earnings as well.

  A figure is thrown out of the building by two bulky men. The girl rolls her eyes at the familiar site until the the men step out into the street. She peers closer. Guards of the palace. Her irritation gives way to fear as they take turns kicking the lump lying on the ground. One of the guards shouts at the man to stand, but he’s too inebriated to do much more than loll on the side of the street.

  The girl is about to run over to to help when another man exits the building. His fine, linen kilt and the expensive necklace made of bright blue lapis lazuli stones encased in gold are enough to show he is a powerful man of Pharaoh’s empire, but the girl knows exactly who he is. She steps back into the shadows muttering a curse under her breath shocking enough to make even Set, the god of chaos and destruction, blush. The Vizier and high priest, the second-most powerful man in all of Egypt kicks sand in the face of the drunken man lying on the ground.

  The Vizier steps onto a golden sedan and reclines back onto his seat. He scowls at the man lying on the ground, but does not raise his voice. Instead, with steely, quiet nonchalance he says, “Cut off one of the thief’s hands. That’ll teach him to come to a game of chance unprepared to pay.”

  A guard slips a rope around one of the drunkard’s wrists and pulls it taut against the wall of the vineyard while another guard holds the man up just enough to keep him from falling back to the ground. The drunkard slurs some words together that don’t make sense, his head lolling down to his chest while a third guard unsheathes his sword and places it in a torch fire, readying it to cauterize the wound after the hand has been sliced away.

  “Wait!” The girl has hesitated long enough. If she doesn’t act now, it may be too late. She gulps down her fear, steps out of the shadows and into the street. “You can’t do this.”

  The high priest’s head whips around. He glares at her and spits out, “Who are you to tell me what I can and cannot do? Do you know who I am, girl?”

  She drops to her knees and bows her head in an act of reverential piety. “Yes, my lord. You are Rahotep the Merciful, great and forgiving high priest, the Vizier, Overseer of all Egypt. This man is my father, and he has told me all about your magnificent and charitable deeds of overwhelming compassion.”

  White robes billow around the Vizier’s shoulders as he jumps off the sedan and stomps toward the girl, the firelight of the torches reflecting golden off his shaved head. He snatches the girl’s chin in his strong grip and squeezes hard. “I see you share the same flippant tongue as your father. His mouth bargained away more winnings than he had right to wager. He’s lucky I don’t cut out his tongue as well.” He releases her mouth, his long nails catching on her skin and drawing a thin line of blood.

  “Yes, my lord,” she answers. “It certainly would be a favor to us all if you did. However, my eight younger brothers and sisters are quite fond of all of my father’s body parts and are hoping he’ll be returning home with them all intact tonight. It is after all, his hands that help make it possible for us all to eat.”

  At the sound of his daughter’s voice, the drunken man lifts his head. “Aniya, is that you?” he says, trying to stand up, but falls back down. “What are you doing here? Is it dinner time already?”

  The girl’s eyes stay locked on the ground. She can’t bring herself to look at him. Her father hadn’t always been this way. He was once a lead foreman in the planting fields, rising through the ranks and marked one day for civil service in the Pharaoh’s palace itself. But that was long ago. Aniya can’t recount the many times she’s escorted her father home from the tavern after her mother died, they’re too many to count. Tonight is the worst though. He has never gambled before. He must not be too talented at it.

  “Your father owes a great debt to me, girl. How do you suppose he will pay it?” the Vizier asks.

  Aniya thinks through the savings they do have. Her father’s wages as a farmer are always paid for in food, and there never seems to be enough as it is with ten hungry mouths to feed. What she has earned from her reed weaving has all been used to trade for clothing and other goods. They have nothing of value, certainly nothing that could interest the high priest.

  “Aniya is a master weaver,” her father shouts out from his place in the dirt. “You should see the baskets and shoes she’s able to make from Nile reeds. Her hands move so skillfully, she could probably weave them right into gold!”

  “Father!” she chastises. “Please excuse my father’s rash words, my lord. He’s obviously not in his right mind.”

  The high priest rubs his chin and purses his lips for a moment before walking across the street to Aniya’s father. He grabs a handful of his hair, pulling the drunken man’s head back to look him in the eye. “You owe me much, farmer. You almost paid me with one of your hands tonight. I’m still considering having my guard cut it off.”

  The drunken man’s eyes open wide when he finally notices his hand bound with rope and pulled tight against the stone wall. Panic flashes across his face. “My lord…” he stammers, suddenly much more sober, “I’ll find a way to pay you.”

  “No need,” the high priest says. “I think perhaps we can forge a trade instead. How about we trade your debt and your bloody stump of an arm for your daughter over there? How does that sound to you?” Her father’s eyes dart to to his daughter and grow increasingly larger. “I think in time, your daughter will be able to work off your debt,” the Vizier says with a voice as smooth as silk and deadly as a viper.

  “What do you want with my daughter?” her father asks, not bothering to hide the accusation in his voice.

  “Relax.” The high priest releases the man’s hair and lets his head roll forward. “Nothing as lecherous as you imagine. Although your daughter is beautif
ul, I have no need of her in that regard. No, I have other ideas for how your daughter might make herself useful. I’m simply intrigued by her weaving skills. If what you say is even remotely true, then it will be worth my while to have her around. I can always use a master weaver, whether or not she can weave reeds into gold. Although life might be easier for her if she can.”

  The high priest motions to the guard holding the rope, and the drunken man’s arm is released. Aniya rushes to help him to his feet.

  “Aniya, I’m sorry. You don’t have to do this. Surely, there’s another way to pay off the debt.”

  She hugs her father’s neck in a tight embrace. “I’m sure it will all end well,” she reassures him while hoping her words are true. “Pray the gods watch over me though, just in case. The high priest’s offer is a generous proposition. Your children will be very thankful tomorrow when you are able to return to work, even if I can’t be there to help for a while.”

  Her father kisses her roughly against the cheek. “May Mother Isis and all the gods protect you,” he whispers in her ear. Even in his drunken state, Aniya’s father knows better than to mention the gods too loudly in the high priest’s presence, since Pharaoh has outlawed the worship of all the ancient gods in favor of a new god, Aten the One God.

  Aniya clasps her arms around her father one final time before she turns away to follow the high priest and his guards. Shaking from fear and fighting back tears that threaten to overwhelm her, she resists the urge to look back at her father as she follows the Vizier’s caravan through the dark streets of Waset.

  The few people that are still out at this time time of night give the small company a wide berth. Two of the guards flank Aniya on each side while other palace guards carry the high priest on the sedan, its long poles supported on their strong shoulders. The procession passes by a few homes of people Aniya knows, and those that see her gawk as she passes by. Her cheeks flush with heat and the sting of welling tears pricks her eyes, but she quickly blinks the tears back. Aniya wonders briefly how the gossip will run through the city like the Nile itself, bloated and overflowing with whispers of “Did you hear?” Everyone loves a good scandal; few things are quite as satisfying as being the first to share the news of the farmer’s daughter who was taken to the palace by the high priest himself.

  It doesn’t take long to reach the palace. In the middle of the city, the palace of Pharaoh sits on the bank of the Nile, flanked by towering statues of pharaohs and gods of the past.

  The high priest waves a dismissive hand at the girl and the guards flanking her sides. “Take the girl around to the servants’ entrance, and place her in one of the holding cells in the dungeon. We don’t want her to run away without paying her dues, now do we?” Aniya looks up at the high priest still reclining on the sedan, and he gives her a cruel smile. She forces a smile on her own lips and regards him with the bravest look she can muster.

  The two remaining guards lead her around to a nondescript side entrance. No towering statues here. Simply two columns on either side of a heavy, wooden door. Her stomach churns and she wipes the slick sweat off the palm of her hands onto her dress. One of the guards knocks, and after few moments the door opens a crack.

  The guard says, “Rahotep the Merciful has just purchased this girl to settle her father’s debts. We’re to take her to the dungeon.” The guard gives Aniya a sly, sideward glance and winks at her. He’d heard her over-flattery earlier, and mocks her with it. The door opens wider and a young man close to Aniya’s age, just on the cusp of adulthood, steps out.

  “The high priest is many things,” the young man says with a frown, “but ‘merciful’ is not one of them.” He looks her up and down, his frown deepening. Aniya stares straight ahead, but still takes in the measure of the young palace steward. His skin is dark brown like most Egyptians. A wig of short, black braids sits on his head and black kohl makeup adorns his eyes. All he wears is a short, white linen kilt, and though he is still not quite grown, he is tall and well muscled.

  “You are nearly as white as linen,” he says. “Don’t you ever go outside?”

  Aniya balks at the unexpected question, though it’s not one she hasn’t heard before. No one in her family has skin quite as fair and light as hers. In fact, she has never seen another person in all of Waset with such alabaster skin.

  “Not if I can help it,” she answers, her words crisp and sharp.

  “I guess you won’t have to worry about sunshine for awhile,” he says. “Not with where you’re going.”

  Aniya fixes the boy with a piercing glare. He shares a wide open grin with her in return.

  TWO

  Nehi watches the haughty girl walk down the back hall of the palace surrounded by the guards, then slips the door shut, nodding to the remaining guards standing just inside the entrance. He doesn’t envy the girl. Briefly, he wonders what Master Rahotep will do with her, but knows it will not be pleasant. The girl is no concern of his, and she fades from his memory with each step he takes through the palace towards his own private chamber.

  His room is small and windowless, with barely enough floor space to pace four steps, but Nehi sighs with contentment as he sinks down onto his bed. Here he is away from the eyes of the guards, Pharaoh and his wives, and the eyes he fears the most -- those of the high priest.

  He is nearly drifting into sleep when a young slave boy pushes aside the linen curtain to his room and delivers the message that Rahotep requests his presence.

  “Where? In the sacred chamber?” he asks the young slave, a boy just a few years younger than he. Nehi tries to keep the tremble from his voice, but fear snakes its way into his words.

  “No, not there,” the boy reports. “The lord priest is in his chambers.”

  A breath of relief rushes from Nehi’s lungs. He thanks the boy for bringing the news and sends him on his way. It’s not time for the ritual. Thank the gods.

  God, he reminds himself. Just one now. Thank Aten, the One God. He says the words in a silent prayer and leaves his small room to attend to his master’s bidding.

  Rahotep stands at an ornately carved wooden table. He’s surrounded by scrolls, so many they fall haphazardly off his desk, littering the floor. His fingers sweep across pages of hieroglyphics like a man parched for knowledge. He pushes aside the scrolls and Nehi notices some of them are star charts and prophesies of Osiris and Isis while others contain partial spells from the Book of the Dead. Rahotep reaches for another and begins muttering to himself again, forgotten constellations and spells cascading from the table.

  Silently, Nehi bends over to collect the scrolls, carefully rolling the papyrus around itself and taking care not to crease any of the sacred text. He catches brief phrases and fragments of words as the high priest continues to pour over the star maps and prophesies. Little of it makes sense to his ears at first until he hears Rahotep mutter the words “boy child” and Nehi realizes what has caused the high priest to become so riled up.

  His master has been given the duty of finding the next queen of Egypt, but not just any queen. He must find a maiden that will bear Pharaoh an heir, a son. Much of the magic Rahotep has been using as of late has been to find a maiden who is worthy of the honor, but no one has been found quite yet. The few prospects that have been found have not shown clear destinies for bearing a son. The king already has many daughters. He will not need one more. The Vizier must be certain with his choice.

  “Boy!” Rahotep bellows. Nehi stops in mid-stoop to look at the high priest. Even though Nehi is now more man than boy, he doesn’t expect the priest to refer to him any other way. He long ago became accustomed to Rahotep referring to him as “boy.”

  “Yes, master?”

  “I have a small task for you to attend to. A peasant girl was brought here tonight. She’s probably holed up in the dungeon right now. I need you to ascertain if she has any value to me.”

  “My lord?”

  The priest looks up from the curling pap
yrus to give Nehi a scowl.

  “Find out if she has any skills -- any abilities that could be useful. Her father said she has some competency with weaving. See if that’s true, or if he was simply boasting to save his own skin. Find out if she has any potential as an artisan. If she truly has talent, I may be able to sell her off for a high price.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Nehi answers with a bow, places the scrolls he’s collected onto the table, and then makes his way to the door.

  “One more thing,” Rahotep says, opening another scroll. “See if she has any propensity for magic as well. She may be useful as a vessel.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Nehi nods, trying to ignore the chill that running down his spine with that word.

  Vessel.

  He hopes for the girl’s sake she has no talent for magic.

  Torch light flickers off the stone walls and floor of the dungeon as Nehi makes his way down through the narrow tunnels to the small hallway hidden underneath the palace. The air is slightly cooler in this section of the palace, and the faint light of the torches creates a dark and somber atmosphere cut off from the outside world. A person down here could quickly lose track of time. Nehi had not seen many prisoners in his time at the palace, but those that he had seen were all prisoners of the high priest. I wonder if Pharaoh ever takes prisoners...or perhaps Rahotep takes enough for the both of them.

  The girl’s cell is the last room in the hallway. Outside stands a single guard with spear in hand. Nehi regards him for a moment and motions to the door. The guard withdraws a wooden key from inside his belt and places it into a small hole in the door bolt. With a twist of his hand the sound of pins lifting tumblers echoes off the walls. The guard slides the bolt to one side and unlocks the door. Nehi gives it a gentle push and walks inside the cell.

  The girl he met at the side entrance of the palace sits on the floor next to a small pile of river weeds. She holds some in her hand, bent and broken. An unfinished and lopsided woven bowl sits in her lap. Nehi eyes it and doubts it could hold anything without falling apart instantly.