CHAPTER FIVE

The Lost Princess

AMENIRDIS, LOST PRINCESS of Zerzura, was dreaming of the day she lost her name, and herself.

She was curled on her woven mat in the building reserved for the female house slaves, her ugly gray shawl wrapped around her, despite the muggy heat of the rainy African night. The dream was so real, so detailed, it was as if she were reliving those awful moments, just as they had happened. She stirred in her sleep, her hands curling into fists, clutching folds of her shawl as the dream unfolded.…

She was back on the seemingly endless savannah of the land their native guides had called Ethiopia, part of her small caravan, walking with her face toward the descending sun, full of silent despair. She had led a caravan of her people on what had proven to be a useless and heartbreaking pilgrimage to their ancient homeland of Kush, the country men now called Nubia. She’d been so sure that if she went to the ancient homeland, that the gods would help her find her missing father and brother!

The princess’s father, Pharaoh Taharka, had left their hidden island five years ago, seeking a remedy to cure her little brother, Prince Aniba, who had died three months after the king’s departure. Taharka had never returned. A year later, her fourteen-year-old brother, Prince Shabako, had vanished, leaving a note that he had gone to seek his missing father. He had not returned, either.

Amenirdis grieved for her missing brother every day, until one morning she had awakened with a vision of their ancient homeland as it was portrayed in their record scrolls. There had been no contact between the Western exiles and those who had remained in Kush, no contact for more than three thousand years. Perhaps it was time to heal old wounds, to reunite with their distant cousins. Her mind filled with her vision; the princess became convinced that if she went to Apedemak’s most ancient temple and prayed there, the god would grant her knowledge of her brother and father’s fate. She felt certain Shabako still lived. Surely if he had died, she would have known. They had been close…so close.

And now her dreams lay broken. She walked across the seemingly endless savannah, ignoring the aching of her tired feet. At least the savannah was better than the Great Desert they had crossed to reach the Great River, the Nile. Amenirdis tried to tell herself that all was not lost. She had gambled with this mission, and she had lost, but at least now she was on her way home, and the desert was behind them. She would go home to the Shining City, to fair Zerzura, where her mother, Queen Tiyy, waited anxiously for her return.

Catching the toe of her sandal on a rock, the princess stumbled, and her eunuch bodyguard, Tarek, quickly steadied her. The princess flashed him a weary smile of thanks. He was so faithful, always at her side; with him she felt completely safe. Tarek was the tallest, broadest male in the party. Amenirdis was tall for a woman, but his massive form towered over her.

The princess sighed. They had all had such great hopes for this expedition, only to see them dashed. Their journey from the West Coast had taken two long, weary months. First they had ventured inland, and then the native guides they’d hired had taken them south, in order to avoid as much of the Great Desert as possible.

Finally, they’d traveled north, skirting the Nile, to reach the third cataract. They knew that their destination, the city of Kerma, lay just south of the third cataract. They’d been filled with anticipation and joy as they walked those final few miles, excitedly waiting for their first glimpse of the legendary city of their forebears. Amenirdis had pictured the bustling city as it was depicted in their ancient scrolls: the massive deffufas built of mud-brick, towering like man-made, flat-topped mountains, the pharaoh’s palace, the temples, the municipal buildings, the round dwelling places of the populace, and, on the outskirts, the massive circular mounds marking the burial sites of the pharaohs who had passed on to the next life—all the grandeur that was part of their ancient heritage. The high priest, old Piye, could scarcely contain his excitement. For the first time since their exodus nearly three thousand years ago, the descendants of Kerma were returning, eager for the sight of their Eastern brethren.

But instead of palaces, temples, and throngs of people, they had found nothing but a long-deserted ruin.

Amenirdis sighed again, realizing her pace had slowed, and thus, everyone had slowed to accommodate her. Determinedly, she lengthened and quickened her stride, and the group picked up the pace. Two of the warrior-priests preceded her, and the other two walked behind her. Her two maids flanked her. Behind the priests trudged the baggage slaves. The princess’s personal contingent of guardsmen surrounded the party, their bows held ready, arrows nocked, swords loose in their sheaths. As they walked, their trained eyes scanned every clump of vegetation, every stand of trees or rock outcropping for possible enemies.

Amenirdis could smell the vegetation beneath their feet as they walked, and the pungent odor of sweat-soaked humanity. She’d wrapped a scarf around her head to protect her from the sun, but even with it across her forehead, droplets still collected, dripping down her face. Every time she moistened her lips, she tasted salt. The party had stopped to rest when the sun was overhead, at its strongest, but even now, with it mercifully low in the sky, she still felt as though she were wrapped in a woolen cloak, lying before a roaring fire. All of them were sweating, not just the baggage slaves.

They had no warning. None.

One moment they were walking over the rich sward of the savannah, the next, a strange sound like a sharp crack of thunder split the air. One of her guardsmen went down like a sacrificial animal before the knife of a priest. He lay sprawled, silent, unmoving. Amenirdis stopped, staring, unable for a second to connect the two events—the sound, then the guard’s death. Amenemhet, commander of the guards, shouted an order.

His men moved into defensive positions, lances and bows ready.

Another thunder-sound smote the air…another guard dropped.

“Down!” shouted the commander. “Everyone down!”

Amenirdis froze, unable to move. Tarek grabbed her and flung her to the ground. She gasped, her wind knocked out by the force of her landing. The eunuch rested his huge hand between her shoulder blades, holding her motionless, though after finally drawing breath, she regained her wits enough not to struggle. Cautiously, she raised her head a tiny bit, realizing that the entire group lay prone, the tall grasses waving with the disturbance caused by their bodies. What just happened? she wondered, dazedly. Two men, dead—and no sign of a weapon! Are the gods angry with us? Did they send invisible lightning to strike us down?

For a moment she wondered whether she should stand up, offer herself to the angry god, or goddess, and beg him or her to spare her people. She would explain that the responsibility for their journey to the original Kerma had been hers. If the gods were angry that the descendants of ancient Kerma had trodden on once-sacred ground, let them vent their fury on her, and her alone.

But that didn’t make sense, she realized a moment later. Her party had offered all the correct prayers, made the proper sacrifice, and in all ways been reverent, even though the once-mighty city was now nothing but dirt, sand, and rock, studded with pottery shards and ruins. The massive deffufas, the ancient temples, still rose as huge piles of mud-brick rubble above the plain, victims of erosion and wind. In places it had been possible for the eye to trace the outline of the city wall, or some of the larger buildings, but mostly it was only the littered ground that hinted that once humans had lived there. The enormous burial tumuli of the long-dead kings still showed as swellings above the ground, but unless one knew what they were, they were easy to overlook.

Time had reduced the capital city of Kerma, heart and soul of the empire of Kush, to rubble and memories—nothing more. There were no gods there to anger.

Besides, if there was power being used here, either by gods or humans, her bracelet would tell her. Amenirdis touched the wristlet, the sacred band bearing the stylized image of a lion picked out in green gems, stones that were slivers of the Heart of Zerzura itself. The bracelet assured her that whatever had caused the deaths of those guards, it had not been magical in origin.

So if the gods were not dealing death out of thin air, who was?

Lying on the savannah, Amenirdis cautiously parted the grasses with her hands, trying to peer through them. Her heart stopped, then raced like a panicked horse when she heard a human voice shouting something in a language she did not understand.

Men? Men have this power, to slay from a distance like gods?

Turning her head, she exchanged a look with Tarek. He stared at her, then pointed with his chin to her right, and whispered, “Crawl,” in a voice pitched for her ears alone.

For answer, she shook her head, her heavy golden earrings swinging against her dark cheeks, then drew her dagger. I will not desert my people, she thought fiercely. Tarek’s expression darkened as he read her resolve, then he jerked his head emphatically, repeating the command. Again the princess shook her head. Something touched her ankle, and it was all she could do not to shriek and jump. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw the high priest, grizzled old Piye, frowning urgently at her. When her eyes met his, he nodded emphatically, and jerked his head to the right, mouthing, “Go.”

“No,” she mouthed back.

Piye squeezed her ankle again, then his finger moved, spelling out symbols in their language on her skin, one at a time. She squeezed her eyes shut, concentrating, trying to visualize the message.

“THE GOD COMMANDS.”

Amenirdis blinked, then gave Piye a glance, and a reluctant nod. She began crawling through the tall savannah grass, heading to her right.

It was hard. Tarek came behind her, guiding her with light taps on the soles of her sandals to turn right or left. She did not dare raise herself to her hands and knees, because only when she lay flat was the grass high enough to hide her. The grass stems tickled and were alive with insect life. Dirt clung to her sweaty body, and the effort of pulling herself forward, sliding over the ground on her belly, soon left her drenched in sweat. She itched until she thought she would go mad, but could not stop. Her bruised body cried out for rest, but she knew the Tarek and the others were behind her, and they were looking to her to lead them, so she kept moving.

When she reached the outer perimeter of their group, she had to crawl between two of her guardsmen. They nodded respectfully at her, but did not move, and it was then that the princess realized that they intended to stay behind, to cover her retreat. No, she thought. They should be trying to escape, too! But there was no way to give orders or to argue. All she could do was to keep inching forward, making as little stir in the grass as possible.

Any second she dreaded to hear that terrible thunder sound again, but it did not come.

The sun was very low now, turning the stems of some of the waving grasses to gold. Amenirdis kept crawling, wondering whether the whole party might be able to escape under cover of night.

Finally, after what seemed hours of sliding forward on her belly, something besides more stalks of grass entered her very narrow view. Rock thrust up before her. As she continued to crawl, it widened, visible through the stalks of grass like the wedge of a plow. Amenirdis dared to roll slightly onto her side, so she could gain some idea of how high the rocky extrusion was.

It was an outcrop of sandstone, a good-sized one. She could see the leaves of small trees waving in the faint breeze, some of them growing up from cracks in the rocks. There were also clumps of brush. It offered concealment, refuge.

We made it! she thought, feeling a surge of relief. We can all hide among the rocks until the sun goes down, then we can try to get away from the men that are out there, these men who can kill from a distance.

Her mind raced, planning her strategy for the remainder of the journey. They would travel only at night, hiding during the day. They should be able to retrace their path to the coast, if they were careful. Their boats would be waiting for them, because they were carefully hidden by illusion and spell-protected. They would—

Sound erupted behind them. Thunder cracks shattered the stillness. She heard war cries, shouts, then screams.

Tarek surged forward, bent almost double, and grabbed her up beneath one massive arm as he raced for the rocks. A bare moment later she was flung into concealment behind a screen of bush and a large rock, with her back against another rock, this one the size of a small dwelling. Almost immediately two other bodies crowded into the recessed niche with her: Tarek and Piye, the high priest.

Amenirdis drew her dagger, expecting any moment to be hauled out of the little refuge, but seconds turned into minutes, and no one appeared.

The thunder cracks had ceased. She crouched with her two protectors, unable to see out, listening as hard as she could. Shouts in a language she did not know filled the air, mixed with wailing, screams, and moaning. Four more thunder cracks, and the screams stopped abruptly.

“Are we the only ones to escape?” Her voice was weak, barely more than a breath.

Tarek nodded grimly. “Yes, Highness. I believe so.” The eunuch’s eyes held fear, not for himself, she knew, but for her. “I believe our escape is only temporary. Sooner or later they will search this area, and they will find us.” He glanced up at the sky. “When night falls, it might be possible to climb these rocks and get away, but I hold little hope for that.”

The princess knew he spoke the truth. “We must pray,” she said, softly. “Piye, will you guide us in a prayer to Apedemak?”

“Highness,” the old priest said, “rather than praying right now, I feel we should do what we can to strengthen ourselves.” He held up a pack. Amenirdis recognized it. It was not large, and she had last seen it carried by Amanimalel, one of her maids. “I grabbed the strap to help her along, but she tripped and fell, and suddenly I was holding only the pack,” he explained, his dark eyes full of regret. “Perhaps I should have dropped it, but I was running so quickly I couldn’t summon the wit to do so.”

Quickly, he opened the little pack. There was a ceramic water container, stoppered and full. Piye held it out to Amenirdis. “Here, Highness.”

She drew back. “No,” she said. “I will drink only if we share equally.”

Each of them passed it around and took a few quick, grateful swallows. Even though the water was nearly as warm as bathwater, Amenirdis thought that no drink had ever tasted as good. Piye searched further, and pulled out a round of griddle bread, which they broke into pieces and shared. Even the two bites that were her share helped restore the princess’s energy.

The priest searched the rest of the contents, finding a wrinkled skirt, an old, patched tunic, some hair beads, a gray shawl, and a spare pair of sandals. All were equally worn.

The three of them regarded each other in dismay. “It was too much to hope for a weapon.” Tarek said, finally. “We still have our daggers.”

“Yes,” Piye said, abstractedly, glancing at the sky. “Not long till sunset.”

Smells of cooking, laughter, and conversation reached them. Evidently the captors and slayers were setting up camp. “How many do you think survived?” Amenirdis asked.

“No way to know,” Tarek said.

A woman screamed, then screamed again. It was a shriek of outrage and pain, and then a new voice echoed it. Amenirdis recognized those cries. “Amanimalel,” she whispered. “And Pennut. I know their voices.”

Piye exchanged a glance with Tarek. “Highness,” he said, urgently, “you are in grave danger, worse than Tarek and I. All they are likely to do is kill us. But you…”

Amenirdis knew what the old man was trying to say. “You need not be so delicate,” she said. “I am twenty years old, Holy One. I know what men do to captive women.”

The old man’s dark skin darkened even more as he blushed. The princess had to fight back the hysterical urge to laugh. Instinctively, she knew if she started, she wouldn’t stop. Sternly, she ordered herself to stop trembling and show courage.

“Highness,” Piye said urgently, “I believe you must disguise yourself. If they realize you are of royal blood, they may target you all the more.”

“What should I do?”

“To begin with, give us your jewelry,” Tarek said. “Let them not find it on you. And put on your maid’s clothes. I will hide your own clothing down the crevice behind me. Perhaps they will not find it.”

She nodded, and the men politely dropped their faces onto their drawn up knees. It was not easy to pull on the worn skirt and tunic, and the battered old sandals without standing, but she was young and agile, and she managed. When she was finished changing her garments, she stripped off her matching lapis and gold armlets, her golden earrings, and the heavy necklace made up of three strings of lapis, gold, copper, white and pink coral, and emerald beads. The only jewelry she kept was Apedemak’s sacred wristlet.

Tarek, as promised, stuffed her discarded clothing and gold-beaded sandals down the crevice, then he and the priest concealed the jewelry in the pack.

Piye regarded her. “And now, Highness, you and I must work together to weave a spell. Your wristlet is a source of power, and that will help strengthen us. We need to disguise you, make you into someone who will not be perceived as a vessel to incite…”

“Lust,” Amenirdis finished briskly, when he trailed off. She straightened her shoulders. “Very well. I have no wish to face what my poor maids are undergoing. How shall we do this?”

“I believe we can create an illusion that will hold faithfully. You have an affinity with fabrics, woven things,” Piye said. The old priest picked up the gray shawl and shook it out, gazing at it thoughtfully. “This should do. We will center our illusion on it. While you are wearing it, or even touching it, you will appear as we envision you in our spell.”

“What shall we try for?” the princess asked.

The old man shook his head. “Something…off-putting. I fear this is not something I know much about. Standards for female beauty are not something I…I have not the experience to…” he floundered to a halt, shrugging helplessly.

“Give her a squint,” Tarek said, suddenly, surprising both of them, miming crossed eyes with his fingers. “Thin, lank graying hair. Protruding, snaggled teeth. Some strategically placed warts…hairy ones. Wrinkled, blotchy skin. A bit of a hunch to her back, so she can’t stand straight. Make her shorter, so everyone will look down on her. Make her thin up top, and fat below. That should do it.”

Amenirdis, hearing all this, shuddered. “I’ll be hideous,” she said, faintly.

“Yes,” Tarek said. “And that will be all to the good.”

Another female shriek split the air. The three gazed at each other in the fading light. Amenirdis swallowed. “Let us begin.”

Spreading the shawl between them, the priest and the princess centered themselves, then began their spell. Amenirdis held the fabric in her right hand, draped over her forearm so it lay against her bracelet. Raising her left hand, she began weaving patterns in the air. Piye raised the other end of the gray fabric with both hands and breathed upon it, lending her spell-weaving his strength.

As the spell began to build, the princess closed her eyes, concentrating, holding an image of herself within her mind. Then, slowly, feature by feature, she altered that image, doing all the things Tarek had suggested. Weaving the spell was as exhausting as doing manual labor in the fields beneath the full glare of the sun. Amenirdis had to fight fatigue. She made herself concentrate, forced her left hand to move as it wove the spell in the air, creating the illusion. With the illusion formed, the power of the bracelet helped her transfer it into the fabric of the shawl. Her fingers gripped the shawl as she let the spell flow through her.

Piye’s strength reached her, entered her, strengthening her power.

Her eyes were closed, so she did not see what caused Tarek to suddenly draw in his breath. She could not spare the time to look at the shawl, see the faint glow of magic that was flowing into it. But she knew it was there.

After what felt like hours, she finished with her image, seeing in her mind’s eye the distorted, pitiful creature Tarek had described so vividly. Amenirdis gave the spell one final surge of power, then dropped both hands into her lap. Her head sagged forward as exhaustion swept over her like an ocean wave, dragging her down.

Did she sleep, or lose consciousness? Amenirdis couldn’t be sure, but when she finally opened her eyes, it was to darkness. A quarter moon lit the sky, and as her eyes adjusted, she could see Piye and Tarek as dark blurs against the lighter color of the rocks. The spell had exhausted Piye as much as it had her; the old man sagged against the rock, every muscle and sinew gone limp.

Gathering the shawl into her hands, the princess turned to Tarek. “How do I look?” she asked, her voice rough with weariness. She felt as though she had moved a mountain with her bare hands.

Tarek opened his mouth, but he never got the chance to reply.

Sudden light shone into their little hiding place. They blinked at the brightness, drawing back. A voice called out words they did not know, as the man holding the torch stepped forward. I must transform my bracelet, the princess thought. She shrank back, clutching the gray shawl around her, hiding the golden wristlet beneath a fold of the fabric. Quickly, she touched it, willing it to transform. A moment later, when she pulled her arm out from beneath the shawl, Apedemak’s talisman appeared to be naught but a scrap of rough-woven fabric encircling her wrist. She stared up as a dark shape loomed menacingly over her, feeling fear twist inside her. Had the illusion worked?

Rough hands seized her.

Amenirdis tried to pull away from those grasping fingers, and as she did so, she gasped sharply and awoke. She lay there for a moment, her heart hammering, fighting to breathe. It was just a dream, she thought. You dreamed about when you were captured. It was very real, but it’s in the past. Calm down.…

She, Tarek, and Piye had been captured by slavers on that terrible day. She’d soon learned that bands of slavers roamed the interior of the continent, searching for prey. They could be either black men or white men, but they were alike; they all carried whips and iron rods, either short or long, that they called “muskets” or “pistols.” These weapons were the things that had caused the thunder-crack noises, these deadly guns that could slay from a distance. The white men had brought these weapons to Africa, but black men had been quick to adopt them and use them to deal death. White or black, slavers cared only for money; she had learned that, too.

The princess’s racing heartbeat slowed, as the nightmare lost its grip on her. She heard rain spattering on the roof. The rainy season had started a bit early this year. Opening her eyes, she could just make out the outlines of her surroundings—the line of pallets on the dirt floor, each holding a sleeping woman. The women’s slave dormitory; yes, she was certainly safe.

Her lips curved in a mirthless grin. Safe from capture, at least. Nobody needed to capture her, because she had already been captured. She was here, on this big farm outside of Calabar, and she was no longer a princess—instead, she was a slave. She had lost everything, even her name. No longer did she bear the proud name of a forbear who had been queen of Kush. She’d abandoned her real name, lest someone recognize it and ask about her origin.

These days, she was known as Ayisha.

It had been five months since Ayisha and the remnants of the Zerzuran caravan had been marched back to Calabar, tethered to one another like beasts of burden by a wooden and leather harness called a coffle.

By the time they’d arrived in Calabar, where they had been sold, their band had been reduced to less than half of the Zerzurans who had survived the initial attack. Ayisha had watched, anguished, as her maids, then two priests, then half the remaining guardsmen had perished during that journey from heat, wounds, starvation, or sickness. As the days went by, she wondered that she had not died herself…and she also found herself envying those who did.

In Calabar, most of the remaining survivors had been sold to slavers who had promptly loaded their new acquisitions into the holds of ships and sailed west. Only Piye, Tarek, and Ayisha were purchased by owners who kept them on African soil.

She had no idea where Piye’s owner had taken him, but she knew where Tarek was. Both of them had been purchased by the same man, an Englishman named Dalton. Master Dalton owned a farm outside Calabar, where he grew food to supply the slave ships. Tarek toiled all day in the fields, growing yams, millet, sorghum, and rice. And she, Ayisha, was the farm’s weaver and seamstress. She spent her days in the weaving and sewing room, making fabric and sewing clothing. At first she had made only simple homespun garments for the field hands, but as her expertise became evident, she was trusted to sew clothing for first the house slaves, then her English master and mistress and their children.

These days, even Mistress’s wealthy friends occasionally brought her bolts of beautiful fabrics and she created dresses for them, modeled on drawings they showed her from books and sketches. Ayisha had a small but growing cache of coins these women had given her as tips, for doing good work. “She’s so ugly one can hardly stand to look at her,” one woman had remarked, as her friend modeled her new afternoon gown, “but I swan, the creature can sew a beautiful gown!”

Ayisha had not, of course, betrayed that she had understood the English. On the march to Calabar, she’d picked up a working knowledge of Yoruba, the language of the local tribes who now controlled the slave-hunting ventures. And once she’d reached the farm, she’d learned the common language spoken by the slaves, which was called pidgin. It was a mixture of several native tongues, with some foreign words thrown in for good measure. But except for obeying commands given her in pidgin, and replying in monosyllables, she was careful to keep her mouth shut. She didn’t want to talk to anyone.

Once she’d reached the farm, where her new master, Roger Dalton, his wife, Mistress Dalton, their children, many of the house servants, and the overseers spoke English, she’d begun learning that language. She had always been good with languages. It was part of her, just as she was good with sewing, weaving, anything to do with fabric. It was all part of the gift the gods had given her at birth, just as her ability to work magic was. She’d had the most ability of anyone in her family, far more than her father or brother.

For all the good it did her. This far from the Heart of Zerzura, her power was limited. She could do a few things, especially where fabrics were concerned, but she was bitterly aware that she lacked the power to escape to freedom.

At least she still had her small tie to the Heart, and Zerzura. No one had given the woven scrap she wore around her wrist even a glance. It was barely more than a rag, with a faint design picked out by a few embroidered threads.

Ayisha turned over on her pallet, pulling the shawl up over her shoulder. She never let it out of her grasp, not even for a moment. All that stood between her and abuse from the male world was the illusion of her ugliness, so she clung to it fiercely.

She lay there, closing her eyes, seeking sleep, but it eluded her. Instead she found herself envisioning her mother’s face. By now her mother had probably given her up for dead. And, in a way, her daughter Amenirdis, Princess of Zerzura, was dead.

Tears filled her eyes, but Ayisha fiercely blinked them back. She had not cried since that terrible march across Africa, yoked into a coffle with her sick and, at times, dying countrymen. Crying solved nothing. What she had to do was figure out some way to escape.

She rolled over again, onto her back, and stared up into the darkness. Escape meant a ship. They couldn’t walk across water.

If more and more of the white women came to her, bringing her pictures of dresses, bringing her fabrics she’d never encountered before, but were beautiful beyond belief—silks, satins, velvets—and she sewed well for them, they would continue to give her coins. Every day her knowledge of English grew. When she was sure she was entirely alone, and the sound of her loom clacking masked any noise she made, Ayisha practiced speaking English, whispering, first words, then sentences. She knew that being able to communicate would be essential to gaining passage aboard a ship.

Even now, Mistress Dalton was beginning to trust her, allowing her to walk to town sometimes on little errands, especially those connected with her sewing. During these trips, Ayisha confined herself to pointing, gestures, and a few words of pidgin. She didn’t want anyone to know she could speak well. She always kept her ears open for any word of Piye, but so far she had not been able to discover where he had been taken.

Every time she walked past the docks, Aiyisha gazed hungrily at the ships, and she planned. She would save her coins. And when she calculated that she had enough of them, she would buy food and supplies for their journey. Then she and Tarek would leave the farm in the dead of night, and stow away aboard a westbound vessel. Not a slave ship, though. Spell-weaving required concentration, and she would not be able to concentrate in the presence of so many doomed people—her own people, people of Africa, people with dark skins.

After the ship set sail, the closer it came to the island of Kerma, the stronger her power would become. If she were within a day’s sail of her homeland, Ayisha was confident she could weave a spell that would cause the entire crew to fall into deep sleep. Then she and Tarek would lower a boat and take their chances on the open sea. If Apedemak and the other gods favored her, there would be no storms to swamp their boat, and they would reach their illusion-cloaked homeland. The mists shrouding the island would part for her, because that was part of her bracelet’s power.

And then…then they would be home. Home! The thought of it made tears prickle again.

She would never know the fate of her father, or her brother, but at least she would be there to comfort her mother. Amenirdis had no desire to rule Kerma, but if she was the only heir left, she would do her duty, and become queen upon her mother’s death.

The first thing she would do when she was queen, she vowed, lying sleepless in the darkness, listening to the sound of the rain spattering on the roof and the breathing of her fellow slave women, would be to free Kerma’s slaves.

* * *

Ayisha was able to implement her plans over the next few months. Two months into the rainy season, she could speak entire sentences in English. When she sewed in the main house, her sewing room was next door to the schoolroom. She listened to the children as they did their lessons and read aloud. Sometimes she dared to mouth what they were saying, the sound she made barely above a breath. On days when their lessons ended before her sewing project did, she would hurry to finish her work, then lay down the finished project and softly tiptoe next door to the schoolroom. Once there, she listened for approaching footsteps while she studied the pictures on the wall. Once or twice she dared to open the books and gaze at the pictures they held.

Best of all, she liked the globe that stood on the schoolmaster’s desk. It fascinated her. If this was a true depiction of the world, then Apedemak’s priests were correct; the world was round, and it circled the sun.

Ayisha would spin the tan globe slowly, trailing her fingers over its surface. After much study, she identified Africa, because she was able to trace the path of the Nile. She even located the Third Cataract, and knew that the ancient site of ruined, deserted Kerma lay just south of it.

From there, tracing her finger west, and then out onto the sea, she found islands not far west of the northern bulge of West Africa. There were two groups of them. And, she knew, between those clusters of known islands lay her illusion-cloaked homeland.

One day, after she had finished weaving a beautiful blanket for a newborn on its presentation day, she sat sewing in the big house, her needle flashing silver in the sunlight streaming through the west-facing window. Glancing up at the sound of footsteps, she saw Master Dalton, accompanied by a short, slight man wearing a black hat, coat, and black gloves. For the briefest second, their gazes touched.

Ayisha stabbed herself with her needle. Quickly, before her blood could touch the silk, she pulled her finger away and sucked it hastily, keeping her eyes down. Despite the heat, she felt chilled to the bone from the touch of the newcomer’s eyes. She had seen that look in a man’s eyes before, during their march to Calabar. The head slaver was a black man who insisted on being called “Duke” to his face, though she’d learned that his real name was Ancona Wren-John. Duke had had eyes like that.

She was aware, peripherally, of the man glancing at Master Dalton incredulously. “I see you were not exaggerating when you called her ugly, sir. A face to curdle fresh milk, Master Dalton.” His accent was strange, unlike any Ayisha had heard before, and she had some trouble understanding him. She listened intently as she began sewing again.

“’Tis true, Ayisha’s looks will never bring her the attention of a man,” Master Dalton said. “But she’s a good worker. Weaves a fine cloth, sews a fine seam. Gives no trouble.”

“And you say you bought her from Ancona Wren-John, from the coffle he brought in the last of January? The same coffle with the old holy man and the big eunuch?”

“That was the one,” Master said. “I always go among the slaves, and speak to those I consider buying. I can make myself understood in Yoruba. M’wife told me she needed a weaver and a seamstress, and I asked the women if any of them could weave or sew. This one raised her hand. I took her across the street before the sale, to the house of a friend, and showed her a loom, told her to weave. And weave she could. So I bought her. Because of her looks, she came cheap. It was a pleasant surprise to discover she could also sew.”

“She speaks no English?”

“No. Only a few words of Yoruba and of course a bit of the pidgin the slaves here in Calabar use. Yes, no, come here, that kind of thing. I don’t think she’s actually lack-witted. But my wife has to speak to her very simply. At first I wondered if she was mute, but she’s not. But she hardly ever speaks.”

“My employer is in need of a good weaver and seamstress for his household,” the newcomer said. “How much?”

Master Dalton shook his head. “I don’t want to sell Ayisha. She’s too good at her craft.”

Hearing this, it was all Ayisha could do not to visibly sag in relief. The man with the black gloves frightened her. She didn’t know why, but she was convinced that whatever he wanted her for, it wasn’t her ability as a seamstress or weaver.

She stitched faster, and moments later, heard them leave.

That night, she dreamed of the day that Pennut had been unable to rise from the ground. Ayisha, weakened herself, had been trying to help her stand, when “Duke” had come striding over. With a swift shove, he’d thrust the princess away from her maid, and then she’d heard the thunder-crack of his pistol. Pennut had sagged to the ground, a hole between her wide-open eyes. Ayisha had had this dream before. In the dream, as she had done in life, she had raised her gaze to the slaver, incredulous that he could wipe out a human life as though Pennut had been nothing more than a beast.

But this time, when she looked up at Ancona, his face was the face of the visitor with the black gloves. Ayisha awoke, sweating and trembling. She was so terrified of falling asleep and dreaming again of him that she lay there, pinching the inside of her elbow until dawn brightened the eastern sky, and it was time to rise and begin work.

Not long before noon, Mistress Dalton came to the weaving room in the slave quarters to find her. Two men accompanied the Englishwoman. Ayisha glanced at them covertly. One of them was the man with the black gloves. She had to exert every bit of control not to let her fear show.

The other man was different. She realized quickly that he was a wealthy English gentleman. One glance at the quality of his clothing, the fabric, the tailoring, told her that. He was also short.

Ayisha puzzled over his age. His features were smooth, unlined, but his hair was as white as milk, and worn in two large curls on either side of his face.

As they stood there, staring at her, Ayisha continued to weave, her loom clacking rhythmically. She didn’t make eye contact with the newcomers, but watched them covertly.

Mistress indicated Ayisha, then bobbed a curtsey as she addressed her guests. “Here she is, sir. The weaver you asked to see. Her name is Ayisha.” Raising her voice, she called, “Ayisha!”

Ayisha stopped weaving and looked up, unsure whether to rise. “Mistress?” she asked, speaking pidgin.

“Master has sold you, Ayisha,” her mistress said. “I’m sorry to see you go, but it can’t be helped. Go and gather your things, then come back here immediately. Don’t dawdle.”

Ayisha rose, feeling her heart leap with fear. She bobbed a quick curtsey, nodding.

Quickly, she headed for the door. What should I do? I want to run, but what good would that do? I’d be caught before I’d gone a mile. The trackers have dogs.…

As she neared the doorway, head down, Mistress Dalton and the black-gloved man stepped back so she could leave. But the white-haired man suddenly moved, stepping in front of her, barring her exit.

“Hallo, Ayisha,” he said, in English. “My name is Cutler Beckett, and I am your new master. I can’t wait till we can have a nice, long talk.”