Free The Shepherd Kings by Judith Tarr Page A

delightful a companion. But she had brought the mantle,
as no one else had thought to do. He wrapped himself in it, savoring the
warmth, and yes, the beauty of it, too. “This is a mantle for a king,” he said.
“I thank you.”
    She shrugged a little and came to stand beside him, resting
her hands on the parapet. “We can’t have you taking your death of cold before
you even speak with the king,” she said.
    Such concern for his welfare, he thought wryly. “And when will
I speak with the king?” he inquired.
    Again, she shrugged. “When the king is ready, he’ll summon
you.”
    “Ah,” said Kemni. He knew kings. “And what am I to do with
myself while I wait for him?”
    “Anything you like,” said Iphikleia.
    “Murder? Rapine? Murrain among the cattle?”
    Did her eye glint at the sally? He never could tell, with
her. “Anything within the laws,” she said.
    “Then,” he said, “will you be my guide? I’d like to wander a
bit, if I may.”
    “I am not a servant,” she said. “I doubt you know what I am.”
    “A priestess,” he said. “A princess. I come to speak for the
king of Egypt. I may be far beneath you in myself, but my king is rather above
you.”
    “Is he?” She lifted her chin. “Very well. I see how ignorant
you are of our ways—and your accent is still abominable. You might ask for wine
and be given a chamberpot. I’ll play guide. Come.”
    Gracious she was not, but he was not looking for grace. He
wanted the knowledge of one who had run wild over these hills as a child, and
who had not—whatever she might wish him to think—forgotten a fingerbreadth of
it.
    In her company he was considerably less diverted, and
considerably more inclined to notice where he was and what he was looking at.
And yet he was aware, always, of her presence, like the warmth of the mantle on
his skin. She did not call him beautiful, nor much of anything else either. But
she knew where the best wine was, and the most splendid view of the island and
even, distantly, the sea; the finest avenue of noble houses and the richest
pasture of the famous cattle. She even knew where there were horses.
    There were not many. Kemni counted four handfuls of them,
mostly mares and foals. The stallion was old and much scarred with ancient
battles. But they were horses, and they were sacred. “They belong to Earthshaker,”
Iphikleia said with a gesture that averted evil from the name. “He accepts the
sacrifice of the Bull, and cherishes the dance. But we call him Lord of Horses.
He was given them, you see, long ago, before ever our foremothers came to this
island, by his mother who made them.”
    “I had heard,” Kemni said, “that he made them.”
    “So men would have you think,” Iphikleia said. “No; Horse
Goddess made them. He had them from her as a gift. They bless this land. They
embody his promise: that while they live and thrive, his hand will never fall
on us.”
    “They protect you,” Kemni said. He watched the horses in
their field, as they grazed and played and—yes, over yonder, mated. “They
threaten us. The Retenu—”
    “The Retenu have turned them into a weapon,” she said. “But
a weapon serves any hand that can wield it.”
    “Yes,” he said. “I’ve thought of that. By the gods, I’ve
thought of it. But now, in front of them, to dream that we can wield this one . . .”
    “Are you afraid of them?” she asked him.
    “No,” he said. And that was the truth. They were large, but
oxen could be larger. They were not as gentle as oxen, but neither were they as
fierce as crocodiles, or near as deadly.
    She walked past him into the field. Some of the horses
raised their heads. One or two of the youngest came to investigate, bright-eyed
with curiosity. She greeted them as one who knew well their ways, walking at
ease among them.
    Kemni had never seen horses so close, except in battle.
These were not coming at him to destroy him. They took little notice of him in
the main. They were