Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The boy who would be Scarab dipped his reed pen in ink and quickly scrawled in shorthand across the papyrus, occasionally glancing up at the two men whom he was transcribing. Speed was the key here, not appearance, and anything of note would be rewritten and added to the official records later, though even these quickly made writings would be put away for future use if necessary.

Master Magician Hori had returned from his missions and had requested a personal audience with the Pharaoh. A loyal and favored man of the court, as well as an old friend of Pharaoh Thutmose, Hori was granted his audience and the two retired to the Pharaoh’s private office.

Scarab couldn’t help the swell within his chest when Thutmose gestured for him among his several personal scribes to follow. The prestige and trust shown in the choice was enough, but what flavored this even sweeter was Scarab’s exclusive access to this private conversation. Oh, the record would be kept for others to read, of course, but Scarab would hear the conversation directly, would know the inflection of tone and movement, all the little pieces to put to a bigger picture for his use.

A good birth and skill had gotten him where he was at his young age, and cleverness and understanding the game would ascend him higher. Never discard a possible advantage.

There was a lull in the conversation and Scarab quickly glanced over his record. The day, the hour, under the auspicious rule of Pharaoh Thutmose, comes Master Magician Hori of Abydos to petition on behalf of a rogue wizard plaguing the lower districts of the capital.

That was sure...something.

Magic, or the true power of magic as used by sorcerers, was only for the elite, those of proper blood and formally educated. All magicians of such caliber were then tied to the temples and court, bound by Pharaoh’s whim, he himself a magician of considerable talent. Magic was not for the peasantry, who had not the education nor the mental capacity thereof, and so for the safety of themselves, others, and to maintain order, sorcery was forbidden them. Still, now and again some upstart thought themselves capable and managed to learn a few spells and then would inevitably terrorize the populace.

Master Hori and a few other magicians like him were duty bound to track down these rogues and assess them, oftentimes requiring an impromptu execution in the Pharaoh’s name as these fools would think themselves able of fighting back. Sometimes they surrendered and would gain a trial, though the results were more often than not the same. Magic was too dangerous in the hands of the lowborn.

And yet here was Hori, his assessment being a beg for clemency.

Scarab dipped his reed pen and continued as discussion picked up again.

“So the boy shows skill is what this is? Enough to impress you, anyhow,” Pharaoh Thutmose mused, arms crossed. He was an imposing figure, his speech bold but practiced, and yet despite the weight of the conversation his tone was one of a chat with an old friend, lacking grandiose posing or dramatic declaration.

Hori, on the other hand, was built as a man who enjoyed his life of privilege. His eyes were cunning, yet his body a tad wide, his magic doing the heavy lifting when out in the field. His tone was imploring, but not desperate. He too spoke as to an old friend.

“Skill isn’t what I am speaking of, here, though he does show promise. My lord, you are as good a magician as any of us, so I know you understand what I mean when I say that it’s his comprehension that impresses. His skills are untrained, subpar, but his understanding, his rapport with Heka, is better than any I have seen of his age.”

“Explain.”

Hori sighed, thought a moment. “There is a curse on his arm, and from looking at it, I ascertained that it is designed to kill its bearer within half a year at most. A slow death, as it spreads. He gained it near two years ago, and has held it by way of a magic ward he constructed. It continues to spread, but he has contained it to his arm for now.

“This ward is some of the shoddiest spellwork I have ever seen. The boy can only write a little, and he invokes only partially pertinent gods, and the charms and sigils he attached are no better. And yet it’s working. He doesn’t know spellcraft because he hasn’t been trained for it, and yet his understanding is so precise that he took what he knew as a foundation and built from it. To us, it’s amateur, and yet, technically, it does follow all the rules Heka bids, and so he answered, and effectively.

“Imagine, Thutmose, what this boy could do if he was trained. If he did know the art properly.”

Scarab couldn’t help but frown. Such high praise...and for a peasant.

Thutmose turned and paced a little, taking in the magician’s words. “I hear you, Hori, but then we come to the crime itself. He shouldn’t have learned this level of comprehension in the first place, it’s forbidden for a reason.”

“I know, my lord, and I do not argue your wisdom. Were this another case of a commoner breaking your laws for their own gain, I would not be here. But the fact is that it was one of our own who did this, who willfully disobeyed you and made this boy his student and then when he realized what he’d done, discarded him.”

That brought the Pharaoh to a pause. “Which begs the question: who was his master? More than that,” he eyed Hori, “I sense there is more to this than what you say.”

Master Hori bowed to Thutmose from the waist. “Yes, my lord, I admit it. This is information I give in the face of possible wagging tongues, but to you alone I offer the truth.”

Thutmose narrowed his eyes and then nodded. He looked to Scarab, “This will be off the record. Wait outside.”

Scarab schooled his face to hide his annoyed surprise. He wanted to hear the rest! But instead he bowed, set aside his tools, and stood, making his way to the side door that would put him out into the hall instead of the audience chamber so none would see him being put aside. Once the door shut, he grumbled to himself and turned to look out over the shining city.

And near jumped. Squatting on the floor against the wall was a boy about his own age, maybe a bit younger. He glanced up at Scarab only briefly before he returned to staring ahead at the opposite wall.

Scarab’s lip curled. One glance and he knew this boy did not belong here. Sun-darkened skin over a form built even at this young age like a laborer, despite its leanness. His hair was unkempt, his kilt worn and fraying. A satchel in similar condition was slung over his shoulder. He wore nothing else, save a wrapped mess of linen strips and leather cords around his right forearm, wooden charms tied to it. Blackened, sickening lines and swirls emerged from beneath it, marring the skin and spreading onto arthritically curled fingers that spasmed and twitched at random. Scarab stared; undoubtedly the magic ward and curse Hori had just been talking about.

This was the rogue wizard? Indeed, Thutmose and Hori had referred to him as a boy but Scarab hadn’t considered that literally! But this peasant was even younger than he was! This was what had earned such high praise from Master Magician Hori?

“You,” he commanded, looming over the rogue, because in this position he could, “what are you doing here?” Why aren’t you in a cell? Or a refuse heap?

The boy turned his head slowly and again looked up at him. His sunken eyes were green, and simultaneously too bright and dead. “Waiting…?” he said slowly, as though Scarab were an idiot for asking such a thing.

Scarab bristled, lips pulling back to show teeth. What arrogance to speak to him, a scribe of the Pharaoh, in such a manner! “You don’t belong here,” he seethed, “Go find a guard to put you somewhere more befitting one like you!”

The rogue stared at him a few seconds too long, eyes tired, before returning his gaze to the wall with the simple statement of, “I was told to wait here.”

Scarab’s lip and eye twitched. He couldn’t overrule a command by Hori, yes, but the fact this peasant wouldn’t know that but still ignored him was infuriating. “Still,” he began, his voice calmer, nothing but reason, “it’s best if you wait somewhere that isn’t right outside the great Pharaoh’s office. What would someone think if they came by? Perhaps you should…”

“Who are you, again?” the boy sighed, not even bothering to look at Scarab this time.

Scarab gaped, and then his face darkened, power blooming at his fingertips. He was Scarab, a son of sorcerers of several generations and power boasted within him. Oh, he’d show this rat of lower Thebes what a real wizard was like…

“Khuy?” Hori called as he pushed open the door.

Scarab stepped back out of the way, barely looked at as Hori shut the door behind him and stepped out into the hall. The Pharaoh wasn’t with him.

The rogue stood, seemingly uncoiling himself. He regarded Hori with those sunken eyes, frightened. “Well?”

Hori smiled and held open him arms, “Always remember the mercy of Pharaoh Thutmose.”

The boy, Khuy apparently, let out a sharp breath of relief, shook a little, “So I’m not…?”

“No, you will live,” gently, slowly, Hori put his hands on the boy’s shoulders, “More than that, you have been granted leave for admittance into the temple. There you will earn your education as any young man of high standing. However…”

Khuy was breathing heavily, but swallowed, took a breath at Master Hori’s tone, “The price?”

Hori eyed him. “Know that the Pharaoh has not pardoned you for your crimes, but has, instead, removed them entirely. As of his decree, they no longer exist, but that means that Khuy no longer exists. In this moment you are reborn, you are no longer Khuy.”

Scarab, moving back to the door and forgotten, crossed his arms, watching.

The boy now-no-longer-Khuy stared. “I...just like that…? I’m…”

“You are no longer what you were, in this, you may enter the temple, be educated, and should you choose, become the sorcerer I believe you were meant to be.” He pat the boy on the shoulder and stepped back, “Oh don’t look like that, it’s just official phrasing. You are who you are, but let’s start small. You’ll need a new name.”

Hori began to walk down the hall, the rogue padding after him. “New name? But I…”

“It’s fine, believe me. Take advantage of the fact you get to pick it this time!”

Scarab jumped as the door opened and the Pharaoh stepped out. He backed away, bowed and then turned like he wasn’t paying attention to any of this. Thutmose only glanced at him before looking down the hall.

“Hori! Bring him here.”

Master Hori nodded and began to make his way back, only to turn to his frozen ward and beckon him forward. “Come,” he encouraged.

The boy followed, eyes wide as he was brought before the Pharaoh, favored of the gods, ruler of all. Once a few mere steps from him, the rogue dropped to his knees and prostrated himself.

Good, thought Scarab, at least even this scrounger understood who was before him.

Thutmose regarded the boy, then commanded, “Stand.”

He did, but kept his eyes averted.

“Look at me.”

Slowly, the rogue looked into the face of the Pharaoh, visibly trembling.

It was a long moment the Pharaoh gazed at him, his eyes seemingly seeking something within the green ones before him. He tapped a finger to his lips, eyes shut, as though listening. Finally, he said, “Rath. Yes, you look like a Rath.”

The boy blanched and his mouth dropped open, otherwise he didn’t react for too long.

“Well?” the Pharaoh’s voice cracked like a whip, snapping him out of his fugue, “Who are you?”

Eyes wide, the boy bowed from the waist, arms crossed over his chest in submission.

“I am Rath…the eternally grateful.”

Thutmose arched an eyebrow at that, a slight twist of a smile to his mouth. “We shall see.” He then turned his attention to Hori, “Clean him up, feed him, and do something about that arm. He’ll need both his hands."

“My lord,” Hori bowed alongside his new pet project and both stayed bent at the waist as the Pharaoh moved back to his office. He beckoned Scarab to follow and vanished beyond the door.

Ever dutiful, Scarab did follow, then paused at the threshold.

The boy...Rath...straightened, then leaned against the wall, shaking and overwrought. Hori placed his hand on his shoulder, ignored the flinch, and gave it a brief, consoling rub.

“There, it’s going to be alright now,” he said, voice soft, “You’re alright.”

Scarab curled his lip and rolled his eyes at the undeserved affection being displayed.

Hori lowered his hand, “Come on, then. You look like you’ve seen a phantasm.”

“I think I did…” Rath said, pushing off the wall with a deep breath, “Rath...that’s what the great serpent out in the desert told me, I didn’t know what he meant…”

Hori frowned at that, and so did Scarab. “The Pharaoh is the representation of the gods’ will upon this realm, he sees more of the greater picture of the universe than we. Just more to suggest that you were meant to be here. Come, I’d like to deal with that arm first. Your ward is effective, considering, but it’s not holding anymore. I hope to stay and eventually get that curse to recede some, but for the moment I can at least do something about the pain,” the Master Magician continued even as he turned and walked down the hall. Rath followed.

“I doesn’t bother me…”

Well, wasn’t this lovely, Scarab thought as he watched them leave, a low-born scrounger alongside him at the temple, as an equal. Most likely his birth would be his downfall and he’d fail and meet an appropriate end, or…

Or the mystery of it all would make him the temple’s next sorcerous darling. Ugh.

A sharp clearing of a Pharaoh’s throat from within the office caught Scarab’s attention and he hurried inside to gather his tools. Back to work.

Still, this wasn’t a complete disappointment. This Khuy and his past was, by Pharaoh’s decree, erased, never to have existed. And yet Scarab knew. Was the only one who would know as Thutmose told him to destroy the record he’d scrawled and swore the event to secrecy. And he would, for now, ever loyal, ever trustworthy.

Fools made their way through easily discovered lies and idiots betrayed too early. Not Scarab. His care would be genuine, his loyalty true...until what he wanted was at last in reach.

If he had to suffer a literally cursed peasant with delusions of grandeur in the meantime...fine. It would be all the more amusing when he finally fell.

Chapter Text

“I think you’re overreacting.”

Pharaoh Thutmose looked up from the collection of histories unfolded across the table and raised an eyebrow at his son. The room was mostly empty, save himself, his son, a royal guard, and a trusted fan bearer. The rest of his retinue he dismissed for now, as he preferred to keep these kinds of conversations between father and son mostly private. It kept them both a little more honest and blunt with each other.

Amenhotep leaned against the wall in a very unprincely fashion, arms crossed as he gazed out the window at the beautiful white capitol of Egypt, painted gold as Ra descended back towards the underworld.

“Portents of the Serpent of Chaos’ return to wreak vengeance upon my line is hardly something I think could ever be overreacted to,” Thutmose said, voice flat.

“You’ve banished Apep from Egypt. It’s not like you to think your own magic so weak.”

Thutmose eyes darkened, mouth twisting, and Amenhotep realized his error and spoke again before the pharaoh could.

“Forgive me, that’s...not what I meant.” He pushed off the wall and approached his father. “What I mean is that the magic of a Pharaoh is not something so easily overcome, and the gods would have no interest in interfering on behalf of Apep. I don’t see danger enough to bother invoking ancient rites that I can only presume were abandoned for a reason.”

“These rites were created specifically for this kind of danger, and they have been invoked on occasion even since. They only fell out of common use at all due to the general upheaval and mortal dangers that occurred before my forefathers took the throne. Besides, I have already ordered the amulets removed from the sacred vault in the temple.”

“The point is,” Amenhotep leaned on the table, close to his father, “I am the prince, your heir, and nearly a man. How will it look to our people, our enemies, if at the first bit of doomsaying I fall back and cower behind...glorified nannies!”

With a sigh, Thutmose set down the scroll he’d been perusing and gave his son his full attention.

“Guardians are not only only for the protection of children,” he said, slowly, “They mind the well-being of the heir, protect the throne and line, and the Pharaoh himself even beyond death. It is not a position or oath to be taken lightly.”

“All the more reason, then!” Amenhotep near cried, opening his hands in supplication, “Please, I know I’m young, but hear me, listen to what I ask.”

Thutmose nodded and stood to full height. “As you say, you are nearly a man, I will hear you.”

Amenhotep sighed, gave a nod of thanks to his father, and recomposed himself. “You are the one always telling me of the importance of impressions, especially for us, and so I don’t mean to wait until I am a man to gain the people’s trust in me. More and more have I been by your side in your duties, and more have you granted me my own. We are already guarded by the best soldiers Egypt has to offer, and you are a magician of great renown and I hope to one day be the same.”

“You were speaking of a point, my son?”

“As I said before, how would it then look if I start to surround myself in ceremonial guardians despite the ones we have now? Not only does it show weakness on my part, but also a lack of trust in those already guarding me. Forgive me father, I can’t.” He held up his hand to stay comment, took a breath, continued, “But, I will not make light of your wisdom, and I am trying to understand. Therefore, I suggest a compromise.”

One eyebrow of Thutmose almost rose into his crown. “And what would that compromise be?”

“I will accept a Guardian. One.”

Thutmose sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “There are four amulets for a reason.”

“Yes, but that’s not a necessity. I am no child in need of minding, but someone to watch my back under these circumstances would be...prudent. I have the benefit of a guardian, but not to the extent to incite worry in my abilities or insult my own men.”

Thutmose regarded his son for a long moment and then shrugged. “Someday you will be Pharaoh, you must learn to make decisions and go through with them...and suffer the consequences. Very well. I have heard you, and I accept your compromise.”

Amenhotep’s expression betrayed his shock on the matter before he quickly schooled it. “Thank you, father.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” the pharaoh muttered, “hopefully this will not end in folly for you.” He waved his hand dismissively and returned to his scrolls. “Off with you now, I have to think on who I will choose for you.”

“There’s Ramose, he’s one of our best warriors and has much patience for me.”

“Gods bless him for that, but now shoo. You have studies.”

“Yes, Father.”

“And send in Meryamun on your way out,” Thutmose added, not looking up.

Amenhotep gave a small bow and left the study. Meryamun was his father’s chief sorcerer. Old, and talked to himself a lot and the occasional wall, but he was powerful and loyal, and Amenhotep had always liked the glint of mischief in his dark eyes, even as they were being swallowed by wrinkles. He found the old man down the hall in conversation with some priests of Osiris, and gave the sorcerer a short bow before passing on his father’s message. Even a prince must give respect, or expect none in return.

And now to his studies. Amenhotep let out a long sigh. History, science, magic… a pharaoh must know many things, but by all the gods he wished learning them wasn’t so dull.

Before the mound and the waters there was Heka, and Heka is all things. Heka is the word, and bound to word is intent. Intent is the gods’ will, and the gods’ will is Heka…

Hori mentally recited the creed as he watched Rath mouth them from a distance. Even after attaining sorcerer status, young ones were known to keep up their recitations, sometimes out of habit, or for fear of still being forced to say them at random by a senior, or merely for comfort. Rath was the latter; the creed was a constant in a life that kept ripping the ground out from under him.

And was about to again. Hori rubbed at his temple.

Since coming here, every morning before it grew too hot, Rath would go to the garden to practice his forms and recite creeds and philosophies to himself. Maintaining this physicality was not a necessity within their sect, and yet it was something that had kept Rath alive during his time running amok in the lower city, so Hori could hardly blame him for doing so.

He moved, this way and that, coiling and spinning, hand thrusting out that small wooden rod he refused to let go, the charms on the ward on his arm ringing slightly as they struck each other. His skin beyond the wrappings remained clear, his newest ward was holding very well.

Since coming here… It was a thought that made Hori smile, though he couldn’t keep the sadness from it. After Thutmose had given the boy his new name and life, Hori hadn’t thrown him to the temple right away. Rath had needed some care, both in his arm and his attitude, and his ability to read and write was behind for one his age. It had been a crash course at best, but Rath had done well enough that Hori felt confident in leaving him to his fate and returned to his own duties. He received reports on the boy’s progress here and there, and felt it satisfactory, aside from a few hitches to which every child was prone.

His initial education completed, Hori returned to claim him as his student. It was common among those of their sect to train in a one-on-one fashion, though how this situation worked varied per teacher and student. Some maintained a professional relation, a tutor and a pupil who otherwise remained apart, and others kept their students with them. Rath had nowhere to go, declined the priestly route, and did not bother to form good relations with his fellows, so Hori took him home to his estate.

A choice he did not regret. The boy needed someone he could trust, someone to lean back on when a past that could not truly be decreed away rose up to swallow him. A quiet place to study without fear or distraction.

For Hori, having someone to once again use rooms long abandoned, to walk the halls, to sit and talk with over meals, made the estate less haunted. Perhaps it was not just Rath that had needed it.

It was brief, far too brief.

“Rath.”

The boy...young man now, in truth...paused mid-jab and turned to face him, the sun behind accenting his recently shaved head. “Good morning, Master Hori,” he said politely and snapped his fingers. A servant standing near approached and handed him a cloth and a cup of water. He wiped his face and head and downed the cup before handing both back to the servant with a nod, releasing him to perform the rest of his duties. With that he faced his teacher and gave a short bow.

“We have to talk. Walk with me,” Hori said, voice heavy.

Rath frowned at that, but said nothing and stepped in beside him. Hori always enjoyed a walk around his garden, and his student indulged him. Sometimes they would walk, round and around, and say nothing at all, though Hori learned Rath did not actually enjoy it much. He’d kept his mouth shut too often when they’d first met, keeping to himself, but now the young man just couldn’t seem to stop talking sometimes.

But here, in the tranquility of the garden, he tried. So they walked, steps slow, Hori’s sandals grinding into the crushed marble, and Rath’s bare feet making no noise at all. The student wait for his teacher to speak first.

“I have received a missive from the Pharaoh himself.”

“Ah...so we’ll be going away? How long this time? Are we going to Memphis?”

“No, the missive was for you. We are going nowhere.”

Rath stopped walking and faced his teacher. Hori had to pause and wonder when he’d gained height on him.

“What do you mean?”

“To start, the truth is there is not much more I can teach you. You are an acknowledged member of our sect now, though a novice, and much as I wish it weren’t so, it is…”

“What? But there is so much more to learn! What do you mean there’s not much more to teach?”

“You know my views on this. There is always more to learn, but at this point it is for you to discover. To keep teaching you would be detrimental. And..it’s out of my hands anyway.” He held out the rolled papyrus to his now-former student. It had been tightly wound when handed to him by the runner, but now was loose and bore the cracks of unhappy fingers.

Rath took it and unrolled it between his hands, eyes narrowed as he read, only to widen in surprise...maybe a bit of horror.

“Pharaoh wants me...to protect his son…?”

“It is a great honor being given to you.”

“But why me? I’m a novice! And I know nothing of...of…”

“Oh, now you’re not good at something?”

Rath glared at him...respectfully...and rerolled the papyrus. “I am no guard, and I’m not even twenty…”

“Well you must have done something to impress him.”

“I haven’t even seen the great Pharaoh since he gave me my name!”

Hori regarded him, opened his mouth as though to berate, but could only sigh. “He is Pharaoh, he is privy to things we’ll never know. And so we obey him.”

Rath stared at the papyrus in his hand, fingers tightening around it, much as Hori’s had. “I’m not ready…” he said, and Hori could only ignore the slight tremor in it.

“I told you, there’s no more for me to teach you and…”

“No, not the magic. You,” he looked at Hori, face twisted slightly as if he couldn’t, for once, get his thoughts to align, “saved my life...took me in. You’re like a father to me and I…”

Hori’s eyes widened, then shut. This had become so much harder now. “I knew when I first met you what a hassle you’d be...but I regret none of it. Now now, why are we getting so upset? My home is open to you always, for it is yours as well, that will never change.”

The boy nodded in understanding, apparently stricken dumb, and Hori put a hand on his shoulder, noted with pride, both in his student and himself, that Rath no longer flinched or moved away when he did. “If your true father were here, I’m sure he’d be very proud of you.”

“Maybe,” Rath murmured, and his eyes slid away. He opened the missive again and looked it over. “I am to go to court right away.”

“Then we’d best get you packed and ready. But first...my study.”

Rath glanced over, eyes wide, “Hm?”

“You’ve left another monstrosity in there.” He loved the boy dearly but every time he looked away from him for more than five minutes he was building some scaffolding up the wall or reinventing the shaduf or some other nonsense. He did have to admit though, the magical and mechanical devices that closed then opened the window slats throughout the day based on the sun’s location were quite useful. When they worked.

“Oh! I’ve come up with an idea and I’m still working through some kinks. Wind powered linen washers! Imagine how much time we’ll free up for the servants so they can do other things! ...Like learn how to cook fish properly…”

“Yes, wonderful, thank you, Rath, but get it out of my study!”

Chapter Text

Amenhotep did not know if the seemingly endless, winding labyrinth underneath the palace had been built beneath it to suit the Pharaoh’s sacred needs or if the palace had been built upon this place of magic and earth-bound divinity after. How old were these walls? These tunnels? These hidden away shrines and forges? Somewhere in the archives must be the answer, but he’d never wondered on the matter until now.

Would he still care enough to look after?

The Pharaoh’s procession moved through the maze, guided by priests carrying torches, their murmured invocations echoing off the walls. Amenhotep and his father followed after, dressed in their best regalia. Thutmose wore the double crown, crook and flail in hand, and his son his own princely headdress, the protective uraeus reared back to strike all who would lay hands upon the heir.

Behind them came the royal guards, Ramose among them, and the highest ranking of the court sorcerers, Chief Sorcerer Meryamun and his second, Kirnut. Immediately behind them came a novice, his eyes cast down. While acknowledged members of their sect, the novices had yet to prove themselves and mostly worked as clerks and scribes to their superiors until they earned their way up the convoluted circles. Amenhotep assumed that was this novice’s purpose, considering the satchel of writing tools he kept over his shoulder. Though...it was the all black attire that gave the prince pause.

The magic of priests and sorcerers intertwined and overlapped, but where a priest pulled his power from his god, a sorcerer often made due on their own, which meant they had to be known to themselves and whomever they were invoking quickly. As such, while they had their own uniformity in their sect based on rank and title, a certain level of individuality was expressed through color and embellishment.

For Kirnut, this was a lion motif sewn into his master magician’s headdress. For Meryamun, Chief Sorcerer and a great uncle of Amenhotep, this was in the rich, royal purples of his robe and the amethyst upon his tall headdress clutched in the claws of a beautifully carved silver sphinx.

The novice, as was proper, only wore a circlet over a common head covering. An emerald was set into it, and two gold prongs jut down like fangs beside his eyes. Otherwise he wore a gold usekh collar and a long, sleeved cote in the style of the desert nomads. Amenhotep guessed he had ancestry there. Nothing else of note, save the color.

It was rude to ask a sorcerer what these choices meant to him, so the black could mean anything, but Amenhotep couldn’t help but consider the obvious: a reverence for Anubis or even...he shuddered...Set. Or perhaps this novice had done something bad enough he had to show it for all to see.

But then he wouldn’t have been brought here, to a sacred event attended by the Pharaoh and his son. The unworthy would not be given such an honor.

At the end of the procession, a few more priests brought up the rear. They carried scrolls and books, but no torches, trailing behind in the dark.

Amenhotep kept looking among them all, wondering who was his guardian. Ramose was most likely.

They arrived at the sacred forge, already lit and hot, and Pharaoh and son stopped in the center of the chamber. The others fanned out around them, guards and sorcerers, and the priests gathered around the forge. The sacred smith was already there, as well as the High Priest of Ra, Ahmose.

Despite the large opening through which they’d entered, the chamber was stifling with the heat of the forge, its flames making ancient paintings on the walls dance and twist. At first, Amenhotep thought they were rejoicing, but the longer he looked, the more the figures began to writhe in agony...in warning. He shivered despite the heat and looked away.

An altar stood before the forge, and at the beckon of Ahmose, a priestess stepped forward and placed upon it a tray of white alabaster, draped in silk, and upon that rested the four amulets. Formless, unused for ages, gems in meaningless lumps of gold, and yet they glittered unnaturally in the firelight.

Blue, red, purple, green. The gems were cut, triangular, an odd contrast to the undefined gold that housed them.

The High Priest stepped forward, facing the Pharaoh but his roaming eyes addressed all as he began his invocations, summoning the gods to this place, asking for the power and wisdom of Ra. Amenhotep had heard these prayers many times in his life and tried to pay attention, though his mind wandered, only to return when Ahmose dropped his arms and himself returned to the mortal realm.

“Oh great Pharaoh, incarnation of the gods’ will, summon the guardian you have chosen.”

Thutmose dipped his head in a slight nod and spoke, his voice strong over the roar of the flames, “Rath.”

Rath? That’s not a name.

And then Amenhotep’s mouth dropped open as the black-clad novice stepped forward, faced his father, and lowered himself to a knee, arms crossed over his chest in submission. He looked up as Thutmose gestured with the crook for him to rise go to the priests, and Amenhotep now got a good look at his face.

“Father,” he hissed as the magician turned away, his voice just under the sound of the forge that it didn’t travel beyond the Pharaoh’s ear, “what is this? That’s your choice? He’s a novice, and barely older than I am!”

Thutmose didn’t answer aside from blazing eyes that settled upon his son. Amenhotep fell silent.

Ahmose bowed to the Pharaoh before continuing, “Normally, we priests would present the amulet to the guardian that suits him best, as told to us by the gods, but in this case there is only one guardian chosen, and the gods have been silent.” His attention turned to the novice, “Step forward, Guardian, look upon the amulets. As a magician, you should know which one calls to you.”

The young sorcerer, Rath, nodded and stepped close to the altar. He raised his left hand and let it hover over the amulets, eyes half-lidded, before he reached down and selected one, holding it delicately between his fingers, and trailed his thumb over the gem. He turned and held it out to the High Priest, who glanced at it with a nod.

“The verdant. Yes, the gods approve,” Ahmose said, but did not take it from Rath’s hand. “The color of life, of resurrection, of the goodness granted to us in this world and the next. Of growth…” he added, and his eyes flicked from Rath to Amenhotep and back.

The prince frowned and he wasn’t even sure why.

“Now, Guardian,” the High Priest intoned, raising a hand upwards, “you must speak to the sacred amulet your ren, for with your true name shall it know you, take on a new shape, and gift to you the power of the gods.”

Now it was Rath’s turn to frown as he looked around at the gathered people. Understandable, to give one’s true name to someone was to surrender complete power over to another, and there were many here. Only a man and the gods may know his true name. The young man turned away from the priests and Pharaoh, moved to the wall by the forge, and turned his back to them as as he cupped the amulet close to his face and whispered to it.

And kept whispering. Amenhotep bit his lip to keep from sighing aloud in annoyance as the seconds passed to a minute. How long was this man’s name?

Finally, Rath moved back to the altar and again held out the amulet to the priest. It seemed to shine brighter than before. The High Priest of Ra nodded in satisfaction and took the amulet, holding it up in the palm of his hand.

“Now, Rath, this amulet is a link between you and the power of the gods, to serve your oath in life and beyond if need be. Invoke the name of your patron now, to bestow their power into the amulet.”

Despite the roar of the forge, it was suddenly silent as Rath tilted his head, seemed to think. His lips parted as though to speak, then shut, and then twisted into a smirk as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Whichever god I choose in the moment.”

The eerie, now uncomfortable silence lingered and Ahmose’s eyes flashed at the novice’s casual tone, like he was pondering dinner.

The arrogance, Amenhotep fumed, here of all places, of all rites! To speak of the gods and their power so glibly, and at such a base rank, before the High Priest himself!

It was Kirnut who spoke, his soft voice nearly blending with that of the forge, “It is not required for the rite to choose a patron god, but watch your tone, novice,” he stressed the title, “and remember to whom you speak.”

Rath’s smirk fell away and his arms returned to his side as he look over his shoulder at his superior, before turning and giving the High Priest a bowed head in apology. Ahmose did not look placated, but neither did he waste time on the matter further.

“So be it.” At that, he approached the forge and extended the formless amulet to the smith. With a bow, the muscular man took it with a pair of tongs and thrust it into the bright embers of the forge.

Amenhotep swallowed as the heat increased and the air grew heavy. The priests began to chant, their hands synchronized in gestures, and the amulet glowed, the gold turning white and the green gem lit to brilliance. Too bright, the prince kept blinking as his eyes burned. But his father held fast, and so would he.

Drawing the amulet forth, the smith eyed it, squinting against its light, before laying it upon his anvil and tapping at it with a hammer where it was apparently unshapely to his trained eye.

Tapping only, and yet sparks flew from it. Golden, white, but also green, blue, purple and red, the connection to the other amulets remained even as they had been removed. Then he plunged it into a trough of water and it hissed, and not in any way Amenhotep had ever heard metal cool. It was gold anyway, wasn’t it? Too soft, such treatment was unnecessary…

The smith withdrew the amulet again, and it shone as though polished. He took it in hand and Amenhotep prepared for the cry of pain from its heat but there was none. He stepped forward and laid it upon the altar.

No longer formless, the green gem now glittered within the head of a snake, it’s body sharply coiled beneath it.

“A serpent,” Thutmose mused and turned his eyes to Rath, who regarded his Pharaoh in kind.

Amenhotep did not understand the look that passed between them, though it was Rath who looked away first.

A priest pulled forth a long leather thong which he handed to Ahmose, who in turned took the amulet and strung the cord through before turning and presenting it to the Pharaoh. Thutmose nodded and Amenhotep then had the amulet held out to him. He took the cord in each hand, the amulet dangling, glowing softly. It didn’t weigh anything, and yet was somehow heavy.

“And now, Guardian, you swear your oath,” Ahmose declared, and stepped aside.

Rath came forward and bowed to Thutmose before facing Amenhotep, and lowering himself to his knees before him.

“Rath,” began the Pharaoh, his voice resounding around the cavern that even the forge knew to quiet itself, “behold my son, the prince and heir to my throne.”

“I behold him,” Rath answered.

“Behold Amenhotep, your charge. Swear that you will protect him always, will guard him with your life.”

“My life is his. His life my purpose.”

“Swear that you will guard him unto death, beyond it.”

“May the gods grant me the power to fulfill my oath even should I fall.”

“Swear your life to Amenhotep, until your oath be fulfilled or you are released from it.”

“I am the Guardian of Prince Amenhotep, I swear to protect him with my life, my soul. All that I am I swear to him.”

Thutmose then looked to his son, nodded. Amenhotep swallowed in the oppressive heat and lifted the cord holding the amulet over Rath’s head and around his neck. There were words, and he’d read them beforehand, studied them, but it was too hot and the amulet suddenly very heavy.

There was a whisper, barely heard before him.

Protect me always…

Rath was prompting him. So quickly, like Amenhotep had forgotten…!

“Protect me always, Guardian,” he ground out between teeth, “that I may live to serve, that great Egypt may prosper, that the gods may rejoice. I hold you to this oath until it be fulfilled or I release you.”

He let go of the cord, and the weight fell from his hands and onto Rath.

“Stand, Guardian,” Ahmose intoned, “and face your charge. Know that while this duty bears heavy price, so too does it grant privilege. The Prince’s life and safety are yours, and none may speak against you in such matters. You must serve your prince always, and so all places he may go, so too shall you. Nowhere shall be barred from you. It is a place of honor you hold, and so honor shall be given to you.”

They stood eye to eye, Rath the same height as Amenhotep, and the prince noted the sorcerer’s eyes were green. Green and sharp, like Rath was daring to look into him and finding him wanting. The slight curl of his lip confirmed it and Amenhotep felt a rush of anger.

His father made such a damn to-do about this whole guardian thing and then went and chose an arrogant novice of a wizard to protect him!

Rath looked away from him and turned, stepping to the side. The ritual wasn’t done yet, the priests having to close the rite with prayers and calls of gratitude to Ra. Once concluded, the chamber felt cooler, the dancing light less threatening, even as the forge continued to burn.

The Pharaoh stepped forward and thanked the priests and sorcerers, accepted their bows, and wait for the torch-bearing guides to take the lead and bring them back to daylight. Amenhotep fell in beside him and Rath followed close behind.

Passing through the entryway, he glanced at Ramose, who was watching him with an unreadable expression, before those dark eyes snapped to Rath and narrowed.

Whatever Ramose was thinking about this new guardian, Amenhotep was sure he agreed.