Free Lord of the Two Lands by Judith Tarr Page B

your service,” she said, though that was not what he had offered at all.
    He might have objected. But something in him had broken; or perhaps it had mended. He saluted stiffly, and stood at attention as she walked past him into the tent.

Six
    Hellenes could do nothing without music. There was always someone singing or beating on a drum, or playing one of their infinite varieties of flutes. There was no better way to gather a crowd than to bring out a lyre and play it.
    Meriamon, raised a singer before the god, had been mute since she left Khemet. Her music, like her magic, burned low in her, far from the land that was its source. Sometimes in the night as she lay listening to the sounds of the camp, voices of men and women, snorting of horses, flute and lyre and wine-sodden song, she knew that she was a flower cut from its root, withering slowly in this alien air.
    The night before they were to begin the march away from Issus, Thaïs gave a dinner party in the tent. Banquets in Khemet could be extravagant, and it was fully expected that every guest should give himself fully to the spell of the wine, but Macedonians made Egyptians seem abstemious. They would be drinking and roaring till dawn, and up with the sun, ready for a long day’s march; if any of them was the worse for his night’s debauch, he would die rather than show it.
    She had been invited, of course. She had gone for a little while. But she was feeling ill: too much strangeness, too little sleep, and her courses were on her, stronger than anything the doctors had in their pharmacopoeia.
    She lay in her too-soft Persian bed, curled about her aching middle. Sekhmet was warm against it, giving what comfort a cat could. Meriamon squeezed her eyes against the easy tears. She was always like that in the dark of the moon.
    Her shadow had gone hunting. She had had no will to keep it back. It was a living thing, though magical. It needed to feed. Blood if it could get it, and the essence that was in blood. These hills were full of small wild things; and it took joy in the chase, running under the sky, silent ebon jackal-man with sulfur eyes.
    A little of that joy came back to her now and almost comforted her. She was close at last to sleep. The singing nearest her had paused. There was a moment’s silence; then the notes of a lyre, and a lone voice. It was a very good voice, with the marks of training in it: both depth and clarity, and a range that even she could marvel at. She let the words slide out of comprehension, blur into pure song, wine-song, love-song, sleep-song. On the very edge of the dark, the singer’s name whispered itself to her. Nikolaos.
    A smile went with her into sleep. Not so sullen now with wine in him and his unwelcome duty forgotten, and oh, but he could sing.
    o0o
    She was her shadow, running the hills in the night. Warm blood in her, a life taken with thanks and returned to the gods with its gift of sustenance.
    She was herself, her ka, her spirit that was Meriamon in every line and essence. Meriamon as she was in Khemet: lady of the temple, clothed in white linen, eyes made beautiful with kohl, intricate wig concealing her hair. A great collar lay on her shoulders, gold and lapis, carnelian and crystal, beryl and malachite. Gold twined about her arms, swung heavy from her ears. A fillet of gold bound the wig about her brows.
    The air rustled as with wings. Somewhere a serpent hissed.
    A shape rose up before her, terrible and beautiful: a cobra, hood spread wide, tongue flicking, swaying as it rose. Meriamon regarded it without fear. This was dream, and holy beyond holy, if that one showed itself to her; and the other, dark wings spread wide, vulture-head raised, cold eye fixed on its companion. Edjo of the Delta, uraeus serpent, goddess of the Red Crown, enemy of the enemies of Ra who was a face of Amon; Nekhbet of the White Crown, vulture-goddess, guardian of Upper Egypt.
    Meriamon bowed before them. They took no notice of her. She was