One Shot: "The Street of Seers"
Title: The Street of Seers
Characters: Mahaado, young Atemu
Rating: PG
Word count: ??
Notes: Set pre-series.
Mahaado was panicking.
In all fairness, this was a rare occurrence for him. No one knew better than he that negative emotions clouded both the mind and the purity of one’s heka. Part of his creed as a palace magician involved keeping a clear, calm head in even the worst emergencies, and generally he upheld this code with pride. If faced with a demon, his face would not flicker; traitorous guards-one of whom he had dealt with in just the past month-were nothing. However, Mahaado doubted that, when recording the codes, his predecessors had considered a lost prince in league with normal emergencies.
The magician paused to catch his breath in a secluded corner of the city market. The clamor of activity about him was made even more oppressive by the dread that festered in his chest. Merchants shouted in rasping, crude tones, hawking their goods to people shuffling in the crowded streets, while boys not much younger than the future Pharaoh yowled and fought with one another. The sky above was a pure, shocking blue that Mahaado had only seen in the lapis lazuli stones worn by kings. Drifting through it all was the stench of cooked and rotting meat, and though Mahaado’s nose and mouth were obscured by a scarf, the foulness of the odor was not lost on him.
From under his hooded cloak, he gazed out desperately onto the crowd, searching for the familiar shock of burgundy and gold hair. Though he had warned Prince Atemu to keep his hood on, the prince, in all his willfulness, was not inclined to take advice when out of Mahaado’s sight. Still, even without the hair, Mahaado would know his future king at a mere glance, and thus realized after a few moments that the prince was not anywhere he could locate by simply glancing about.
It was official: Prince Atemu of the line of Horus was missing. And it is my fault.
He should not have given in to the child-king’s pleas to come with Mahaado to the markets. It had not been his first inclination, certainly, but one glance from those large, pleading eyes had been enough to shake his certainty on the matter.
“Please, Mahaado!” the boy had begged. “Father never allows me anywhere.”
“If Lord Pharaoh feels that such excursions are unsafe, my prince, then I am not one to question his judgment.” he’d murmured in reply, removing the last of his golden bangles and taking up his cloak. “Where I am going is a place of…dubious morality.”
But Atemu was only intrigued further. “What place? At least tell me that!”
“It is where soothsayers and thieves sell their services. I go there because I must both spy on evildoers and appropriate ingredients for my spells. But it is dangerous for one such as you; there are cutthroats who would sooner challenge you to a game of death as look upon you.”
Mahaado’s error became apparent when the young prince’s gaze lit, and he groaned to himself.
“A game?” Atemu was already removing his earrings and other finery.
“My prince--,”
“Oh, please, Mahaado!” The prince said again, eyes shining with a manaiacal excitement. “If a game is all we need worry about, then I will protect you. I know you would never allow anything to happen, anyhow. You worry far too much!”
Seeing that face, fine and godlike and glowing, the magician had realized then that he would never be able to refuse his future king anything. He sighed, relenting, and forced a grin.
“If I am to take you, my prince, then you must disguise yourself. But there will be no games so long as I am here.”
Though Atemu had promised, Mahaado realized that it may have been that very condition that caused his prince to slip away. The magician dove into the throng of market-goers again, determination and panic renewed. It did not matter if he were put to death for his carelessness later; no scratch would come to the future Pharaoh’s person while he was able to search for the boy. I will find him. I must.
Discreetly, Mahaado focused his heka and summoned the Magus of Illusion to his side. “Help me locate him.” he murmured, glancing into the ka’s star-point eyes. Mutely, the spirit nodded and took to the skies, drifting, invisible, over the market. While the magus was not as adept at reconnaissance as Isis’s Spiria, its clairvoyance was sufficient when the radius was this size. With a small nod of satisfaction, Mahaado pivoted on his heel and went to the left-toward a darker, more sinister path.
O, prince, he prayed, may my ka find you on the light side of the world, rather than I in the dark.
*
The street of robbers and mystics was steeped in gray shadow, shielded by a series of rectangular buildings from the five ‘o clock sun. People squatted like so many mounds of earth against scarred walls and ramshackle carts. They moved only occaisionallly, hissing through yellowed teeth like snakes rubbing their scales against a basket.
“What do you search for, traveler from the light? Women for your bed, poison for your enemies, a quick hand to snatch gold from the tombs of kings? Anything and everything you can find here…it can all be yours…”
Mahaado never glanced their way. He moved like an angry wraith, shadows clinging to his feet as his eyes darted back and forth. There was something here. His senses prodded him forward, guiding him as one guides a blind man through the most open of places. Since his ka had not yet returned, Mahaado reached the conclusion that the prince was not simply wandering about. Either he had a destination, or had been taken.
The latter prospect almost made him light of head.
His thoughts were interrupted as he felt something seize the hem of his robes. Looking down, the magician saw it was an old, gnarled claw belonging to a bundle that he had barely even noticed; an old beggar woman, no doubt. A stab of impatient sympathy went through him. “Let go, please. I am in a hurry.” he said, trying to sound as gentle as possible, and made to pull away.
“He’s lost his light.”
The voice was surprisingly clear, though soft, and Mahaado almost wondered if someone else had spoken. But no, the crone was lifting her head, milky eyes staring sightlessly into his own. “Chaos and kings. The magician of faith. Searching for the one born with a crown on his head. The jester or king, she wants to know. She sees without seeing. She sees him panic and search for the light.”
To another, the words were babble. But to Mahaado, they rang like silent bells in his mind. He knelt to the crone’s height, slightly confused at his own actions. “What do you mean?”
The woman smiled, revealing toothless gums. “The hierophant knows she can tell him where he needs to go. He sees it deep underneath, in the heart that belongs to one only. He must have his king, or he will wither. It is the way of a servant. So tell her, sorcerer: do you wish to know the past or future?”
“Are you saying you know where he is?”
“She sees him worry, hears his heart a-throbbing. An unusual thing: a desert in an ocean.” The knotty, wrinkled hand reached out and grabbed his wrist with surprising strength. “The one born with a crown on his head is strong, is tricky and resourceful. His spirit undying. The rats and locusts cannot drag down one such as he. But a thief is another thing…yes. A thief-boy with a crown of thorns and jewels and fire burning in his breast. They will clash, with the hierophant in the center. Death and rebirth is what she sees. Shattering eternity…” She drew a wheezing gasp of air and began to chuckle.
“Tell me where the prince is!”
Throwing back her head, the crone loosed a howl of laughter. “Run, mage! Run to him, and never stop running! For you will be by his side until the end of time! Search where bones and dice are tossed. The heart will guide you; the heart guides all!”
And then her grip on his wrist weakened, so that by the time Mahaado registered it, the old woman was dead, sightless eyes still raised toward the sky.
*
“Tell me where he is!”
In the Corner of Games, Prince Atemu of the line of Horus was rapidly losing his patience. His crimson eyes were fixed upon a hairy, bucktoothed man about three feet taller than himself, who was currently sharpening a dagger on a whetstone and smirking.
“Hear that, Ankhwat. The rich squirt wants to know where his servant is. Who do you think you are, boy, Pharaoh?” The man nudged his pudgy companion in the ribs. “Can’t go a moment without his wet nurse.”
Atemu glared. “Watch your words. You yourself said that he’d been kidnapped. So where is he?”
“Oh? Is that what I said? Maybe you misheard me. That hood could be in the way, unless you have jewels hidden underneath it.”
“I don’t have any jewels!” Atemu resisted the urge to bare his teeth.
“Is that so? No money at all?” The bucktoothed man brandished his knife. “Do you know what happens to high and mighty younglings with more pride than size? Their smart little tongues get sliced out. How does that sound to you?”
“I’m not afraid of scum like you.” Atemu’s hands quivered, and he glared more to make up for them. The other responded with a snarl.
“Well, then you need to learn, rich boy!”
The dagger flashed bloody red in the setting sun, and the prince tensed, bracing himself for the blow. But it never came. Instead, there was a sharp crackling sound, a flash of light, and by the time Atemu opened his eyes, Mahaado was standing tall in front of him, cape flapping with the force of the magic barrier he had cast at that moment.
“Mahaado!”
“My prince…” Mahaado’s teeth were gritted. He added an extra burst of force to the spell, blowing the thug into the nearest building. “Come, now!”
In spite of the bubble of pride gnawing his chest, Atemu obeyed. The two turned tail and dashed off, Ankhwat’s shouts pursuing them. Mahaado gripped the prince’s shoulder firmly, pushing him forward, making sure he was always shielded from the villagers’ confused stares by his own body. Somewhere along the path, the Magus of Illusion joined them, but flew off again at a barked command. “He will cause a diversion.”
For how long they ran, neither was certain. But by the time they reached the outskirts of the palace, both were gasping with exhaustion, slumped in a halfway sitting position against a stone wall. Mahaado glanced to his left.
“My prince,” he panted. “Are you hurt?”
“…I’m fine. Thanks to you.” replied the future king. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “I could have beaten them, though.”
Mahaado loosed a small chuckle. “Of that I have no doubt.”
His ka joined them at that moment, fading away as soon as Atemu spotted it. A sick feeling flooded the young boy, then. “Father will be angry.” he muttered, eyes widening at the prospect.
“Yes.” The mage’s voice was flat.
“Will you be put to death?”
“…I do not pretend to know the will of Lord Pharaoh.” Though the words were neutral, Mahaado’s hesitation was enough. Atemu straightened and pulled off his hood.
“But that’s not fair!” he cried, facing Mahaado desperately. “I was the one who wandered off! I should be punished!”
The other shook his head. “I was meant to protect you-”
“And you did. You saved me, Mahaado.” The prince was suddenly holding his hand out towards the magician. “And I’ll never let a favor like that go unpaid.”
Confusion broke like a wave over Mahaado’s features, which had been cut into patches of gold in the dying sun. “My prince?” he began, but Atemu interrupted him.
“Come on! We’re going to explain everything to him right now.”
“To the Pharaoh?”
“Who else?” Impatiently, Atemu seized the magician’s hand himself, pulling the older man to his feet with surprising strength. “If I’m going to be king one day, I can’t afford to lose my best mage and friend.” And with that, he turned on his heel and started toward the palace.
Mahaado gazed after him, eyes incredulous with shock. But then he glanced at his feet. Chaos and kings, he remembered, and it was fitting enough to warrant a smile.
My prince…my Pharaoh. I will never stop running to you.
Characters: Mahaado, young Atemu
Rating: PG
Word count: ??
Notes: Set pre-series.
Mahaado was panicking.
In all fairness, this was a rare occurrence for him. No one knew better than he that negative emotions clouded both the mind and the purity of one’s heka. Part of his creed as a palace magician involved keeping a clear, calm head in even the worst emergencies, and generally he upheld this code with pride. If faced with a demon, his face would not flicker; traitorous guards-one of whom he had dealt with in just the past month-were nothing. However, Mahaado doubted that, when recording the codes, his predecessors had considered a lost prince in league with normal emergencies.
The magician paused to catch his breath in a secluded corner of the city market. The clamor of activity about him was made even more oppressive by the dread that festered in his chest. Merchants shouted in rasping, crude tones, hawking their goods to people shuffling in the crowded streets, while boys not much younger than the future Pharaoh yowled and fought with one another. The sky above was a pure, shocking blue that Mahaado had only seen in the lapis lazuli stones worn by kings. Drifting through it all was the stench of cooked and rotting meat, and though Mahaado’s nose and mouth were obscured by a scarf, the foulness of the odor was not lost on him.
From under his hooded cloak, he gazed out desperately onto the crowd, searching for the familiar shock of burgundy and gold hair. Though he had warned Prince Atemu to keep his hood on, the prince, in all his willfulness, was not inclined to take advice when out of Mahaado’s sight. Still, even without the hair, Mahaado would know his future king at a mere glance, and thus realized after a few moments that the prince was not anywhere he could locate by simply glancing about.
It was official: Prince Atemu of the line of Horus was missing. And it is my fault.
He should not have given in to the child-king’s pleas to come with Mahaado to the markets. It had not been his first inclination, certainly, but one glance from those large, pleading eyes had been enough to shake his certainty on the matter.
“Please, Mahaado!” the boy had begged. “Father never allows me anywhere.”
“If Lord Pharaoh feels that such excursions are unsafe, my prince, then I am not one to question his judgment.” he’d murmured in reply, removing the last of his golden bangles and taking up his cloak. “Where I am going is a place of…dubious morality.”
But Atemu was only intrigued further. “What place? At least tell me that!”
“It is where soothsayers and thieves sell their services. I go there because I must both spy on evildoers and appropriate ingredients for my spells. But it is dangerous for one such as you; there are cutthroats who would sooner challenge you to a game of death as look upon you.”
Mahaado’s error became apparent when the young prince’s gaze lit, and he groaned to himself.
“A game?” Atemu was already removing his earrings and other finery.
“My prince--,”
“Oh, please, Mahaado!” The prince said again, eyes shining with a manaiacal excitement. “If a game is all we need worry about, then I will protect you. I know you would never allow anything to happen, anyhow. You worry far too much!”
Seeing that face, fine and godlike and glowing, the magician had realized then that he would never be able to refuse his future king anything. He sighed, relenting, and forced a grin.
“If I am to take you, my prince, then you must disguise yourself. But there will be no games so long as I am here.”
Though Atemu had promised, Mahaado realized that it may have been that very condition that caused his prince to slip away. The magician dove into the throng of market-goers again, determination and panic renewed. It did not matter if he were put to death for his carelessness later; no scratch would come to the future Pharaoh’s person while he was able to search for the boy. I will find him. I must.
Discreetly, Mahaado focused his heka and summoned the Magus of Illusion to his side. “Help me locate him.” he murmured, glancing into the ka’s star-point eyes. Mutely, the spirit nodded and took to the skies, drifting, invisible, over the market. While the magus was not as adept at reconnaissance as Isis’s Spiria, its clairvoyance was sufficient when the radius was this size. With a small nod of satisfaction, Mahaado pivoted on his heel and went to the left-toward a darker, more sinister path.
O, prince, he prayed, may my ka find you on the light side of the world, rather than I in the dark.
*
The street of robbers and mystics was steeped in gray shadow, shielded by a series of rectangular buildings from the five ‘o clock sun. People squatted like so many mounds of earth against scarred walls and ramshackle carts. They moved only occaisionallly, hissing through yellowed teeth like snakes rubbing their scales against a basket.
“What do you search for, traveler from the light? Women for your bed, poison for your enemies, a quick hand to snatch gold from the tombs of kings? Anything and everything you can find here…it can all be yours…”
Mahaado never glanced their way. He moved like an angry wraith, shadows clinging to his feet as his eyes darted back and forth. There was something here. His senses prodded him forward, guiding him as one guides a blind man through the most open of places. Since his ka had not yet returned, Mahaado reached the conclusion that the prince was not simply wandering about. Either he had a destination, or had been taken.
The latter prospect almost made him light of head.
His thoughts were interrupted as he felt something seize the hem of his robes. Looking down, the magician saw it was an old, gnarled claw belonging to a bundle that he had barely even noticed; an old beggar woman, no doubt. A stab of impatient sympathy went through him. “Let go, please. I am in a hurry.” he said, trying to sound as gentle as possible, and made to pull away.
“He’s lost his light.”
The voice was surprisingly clear, though soft, and Mahaado almost wondered if someone else had spoken. But no, the crone was lifting her head, milky eyes staring sightlessly into his own. “Chaos and kings. The magician of faith. Searching for the one born with a crown on his head. The jester or king, she wants to know. She sees without seeing. She sees him panic and search for the light.”
To another, the words were babble. But to Mahaado, they rang like silent bells in his mind. He knelt to the crone’s height, slightly confused at his own actions. “What do you mean?”
The woman smiled, revealing toothless gums. “The hierophant knows she can tell him where he needs to go. He sees it deep underneath, in the heart that belongs to one only. He must have his king, or he will wither. It is the way of a servant. So tell her, sorcerer: do you wish to know the past or future?”
“Are you saying you know where he is?”
“She sees him worry, hears his heart a-throbbing. An unusual thing: a desert in an ocean.” The knotty, wrinkled hand reached out and grabbed his wrist with surprising strength. “The one born with a crown on his head is strong, is tricky and resourceful. His spirit undying. The rats and locusts cannot drag down one such as he. But a thief is another thing…yes. A thief-boy with a crown of thorns and jewels and fire burning in his breast. They will clash, with the hierophant in the center. Death and rebirth is what she sees. Shattering eternity…” She drew a wheezing gasp of air and began to chuckle.
“Tell me where the prince is!”
Throwing back her head, the crone loosed a howl of laughter. “Run, mage! Run to him, and never stop running! For you will be by his side until the end of time! Search where bones and dice are tossed. The heart will guide you; the heart guides all!”
And then her grip on his wrist weakened, so that by the time Mahaado registered it, the old woman was dead, sightless eyes still raised toward the sky.
*
“Tell me where he is!”
In the Corner of Games, Prince Atemu of the line of Horus was rapidly losing his patience. His crimson eyes were fixed upon a hairy, bucktoothed man about three feet taller than himself, who was currently sharpening a dagger on a whetstone and smirking.
“Hear that, Ankhwat. The rich squirt wants to know where his servant is. Who do you think you are, boy, Pharaoh?” The man nudged his pudgy companion in the ribs. “Can’t go a moment without his wet nurse.”
Atemu glared. “Watch your words. You yourself said that he’d been kidnapped. So where is he?”
“Oh? Is that what I said? Maybe you misheard me. That hood could be in the way, unless you have jewels hidden underneath it.”
“I don’t have any jewels!” Atemu resisted the urge to bare his teeth.
“Is that so? No money at all?” The bucktoothed man brandished his knife. “Do you know what happens to high and mighty younglings with more pride than size? Their smart little tongues get sliced out. How does that sound to you?”
“I’m not afraid of scum like you.” Atemu’s hands quivered, and he glared more to make up for them. The other responded with a snarl.
“Well, then you need to learn, rich boy!”
The dagger flashed bloody red in the setting sun, and the prince tensed, bracing himself for the blow. But it never came. Instead, there was a sharp crackling sound, a flash of light, and by the time Atemu opened his eyes, Mahaado was standing tall in front of him, cape flapping with the force of the magic barrier he had cast at that moment.
“Mahaado!”
“My prince…” Mahaado’s teeth were gritted. He added an extra burst of force to the spell, blowing the thug into the nearest building. “Come, now!”
In spite of the bubble of pride gnawing his chest, Atemu obeyed. The two turned tail and dashed off, Ankhwat’s shouts pursuing them. Mahaado gripped the prince’s shoulder firmly, pushing him forward, making sure he was always shielded from the villagers’ confused stares by his own body. Somewhere along the path, the Magus of Illusion joined them, but flew off again at a barked command. “He will cause a diversion.”
For how long they ran, neither was certain. But by the time they reached the outskirts of the palace, both were gasping with exhaustion, slumped in a halfway sitting position against a stone wall. Mahaado glanced to his left.
“My prince,” he panted. “Are you hurt?”
“…I’m fine. Thanks to you.” replied the future king. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “I could have beaten them, though.”
Mahaado loosed a small chuckle. “Of that I have no doubt.”
His ka joined them at that moment, fading away as soon as Atemu spotted it. A sick feeling flooded the young boy, then. “Father will be angry.” he muttered, eyes widening at the prospect.
“Yes.” The mage’s voice was flat.
“Will you be put to death?”
“…I do not pretend to know the will of Lord Pharaoh.” Though the words were neutral, Mahaado’s hesitation was enough. Atemu straightened and pulled off his hood.
“But that’s not fair!” he cried, facing Mahaado desperately. “I was the one who wandered off! I should be punished!”
The other shook his head. “I was meant to protect you-”
“And you did. You saved me, Mahaado.” The prince was suddenly holding his hand out towards the magician. “And I’ll never let a favor like that go unpaid.”
Confusion broke like a wave over Mahaado’s features, which had been cut into patches of gold in the dying sun. “My prince?” he began, but Atemu interrupted him.
“Come on! We’re going to explain everything to him right now.”
“To the Pharaoh?”
“Who else?” Impatiently, Atemu seized the magician’s hand himself, pulling the older man to his feet with surprising strength. “If I’m going to be king one day, I can’t afford to lose my best mage and friend.” And with that, he turned on his heel and started toward the palace.
Mahaado gazed after him, eyes incredulous with shock. But then he glanced at his feet. Chaos and kings, he remembered, and it was fitting enough to warrant a smile.
My prince…my Pharaoh. I will never stop running to you.