Chapter 9

At the Temple of Set, a conclave was being organized. A new High Priest had to be elected to take the place of Setana. Most of the priests were disappointed that Setana had done what he had, but there were a few - the ones closer to the middle-aged High Priest - that weren't surprised. Setana had been the owner or a rather sinister disposition, and thus, he had more than warranted the suspicion of those who were closest to him.

There was a definite ambience of relief amongst the priests.

Setana had been rather ruthless, ordering the lesser priests to obey his various eccentric commands at insane hours. He would also expect them to drop everything to be present at the main temple whenever it was asked of them.

There was a chance now, that there would be a High Priest who would be reasonable towards his lesser priests.

All of the priests, without any direct orders, made their way to the Election Chamber, murmuring quietly one to another.

The Elections Chamber had been built as an addition to the temple over four hundred years previous to this gathering, thus it was three hundred years newer than the rest of the temple.

A law that that stated that all High Priests must be elected by the lesser priests of the god or goddess they represented had been passed one year prior to this chamber's advent. It had been decided that special chambers would be built on to all the temples, a sacred chamber for this purpose alone.

The priests wandered around, eventually finding seats for themselves.

A priest with dark brown hair and amber eyes stood, and summoned the attention of all present.

"My fellow priests, we have all come her under one accord. Let us begin the voting without delay."

Princess Ksunamun and Prince Akhenaten were sitting together in Ksunamun's chamber. Akhenaten had brought with him scrolls of poetry and had read them to Ksunamun, who had so far thoroughly enjoyed listening to the verses. Right now, she was sitting at his left, resting her head on his chest as he read, and he had his arm around her, placing her more or less in the crook of it.

"I'd love to remain, just a while,

Sitting here, at the Ancient River Nile,

But while it is here I would wish to stay,

Unpleasant reality calls me away." Akhenaten read aloud, finishing the last stanza. It had been a rather long poem about a man's love of the Nile, entitled Yearning for the River by Selim of Nubia.

"I often wonder just how poets manage to express how they feel and rhyme at the same time?"

Akhenaten shook his head, "I do not know, myself, Ksunamun. I try to write - but I have trouble expressing things often. Although, not all poets rhyme."

"I suppose. But it is the ones that rhyme that had the most work put into them, isn't it. In any case, that one was really good," Ksunamun commented quietly.

"It is also the last one, I'm afraid."

Ksunamun took Akhenaten's free hand in hers, and placed a sweet kiss on each of his knuckles. "That's alright," She murmured, "I actually thought you'd be tired of reading before now."

"Nay, I could read to you for hours if you wanted me too," Akhenaten contradicted, "I find it enjoyable."

"That's a good thing," said Ksunamun, "You read a lot, don't you?"

"Yes. So, better I like it, aye?"

"Aye," she replied simply.

Akhenaten trained his gaze upon her, forsaking the old scroll in his lap. "Are you comfortable?" He asked, sounding as though he were stifling a chuckle.

"Aye," She answered, calmly, "That I am."

Akhenaten kissed her hair. He then set the scroll aside, and seeming to read his mind, Ksunamun moved onto Akhenaten's lap. As he shifted so that his arms held her securely, she buried her head in his shoulder. "Akhe," she murmured against his neck, "Tell me I will always be this happy."

Akhenaten closed his eyes and rubbed Ksunamun's back affectionately. "Sweet Lotus Flower, I cannot promise that. All I can promise is that I will do what is in my power to make it so."

Ksunamun seemed to be satisfied, because she didn't reply, merely kissed Akhenaten's cheek. He squeezed her closer to him, careful that he did not hurt her.

"What do you want to do now?" Akhenaten wondered.

The answer came quickly, "Stay like this."

Small strips of parchment had been passed out to each of the priests gathered for the conclave. They each were to take a quill, and write their choice for High Priest. Then they were to fold their ballot and deposit it into the large golden chalice in the centre of the room.

These simple tasks were followed quickly, and before long the chalice was filled to the brim with the neatly folded votes.

When it came time for the votes to be counted, however, there was some dispute over who should count them. It was finally decided that three priests should count them; one old, one middle aged, and one young.

Therefore, the oldest was chosen first, a gaunt, bald man of more than eighty years. Next chosen was the one exactly midway through the age range of all the priests, and this man was forty-eight. He was in rugged good health, and still retained the robust strength of his youth. Also, the youngest. This was a very young man indeed. He was but eighteen, and had been a priest only a season.

These three men stood around the table bearing the chalice.

The chamber fell completely silent as the first votes were counted. They were being arranged neatly in rows; one row for each priest that had been voted for.

A large majority of the votes appeared to be for two main contenders. Who these two were, only the three sorting the ballots knew.

Sorting continued, the three men working together quite well and with efficiency. A total of six hundred and twenty three votes were to be counted, and so far, their progress had been to the tune of one hundred and twenty.

The silence was deafening. At last, someone offered a pitiful cough that somehow managed to echo around the chamber, breaking the intense and unmerciful tension a little. Time seemed to slow to a grinding halt, and to the priests who were witnessing the sorting, it seemed an eternity was taken in placing each vote down on the table.

The number of ballots remaining in the goblet slowly waned, the number spread out on the table increasing in return. Two hundred had been counted - then two hundred and thirty - and then the number approached three hundred. The competition between the particular two priests seemed to be tied still, give or take a few votes.

The counting continued, unabated.

Atemakhu was yet with the Pharaoh, having been asked to linger, so that the two might talk, and become more familiar with each other.

The High priest had known that this was a guise; the Pharaoh wanted to talk about the diadem that was to be made, and some of the wedding preparations. It was only logical, after all. Atemakhu would be the one to marry the Prince and his Princess, and it was he, Atemakhu, who was to place the order for the diadem.

Amenhotep made quick work of dismissing his slaves. He was determined to maintain absolute secrecy.

When he was sure he was alone with the High Priest, he staggered over to his desk, and thumbed through several leafs of papyrus. He extracted one that was almost at the bottom of the pile, and thrust it towards Atemakhu.