Chapter 1

His horse's hooves were as thunder in the desert. Unbidden tears, reflecting the intense sunlight like the miniature rainbows that pour from tiny crystals, spilled down his flawless, clean-shaven cheeks. In his mind, he was screaming, trying to expel his many frustrations. The screams remained silent though, for he had not the will or desire to unleash his aggravation in a way that would bother others.

Akhenaten Osirisia was his name, and he was Crown Prince of Khemet. He rather felt he had been afforded a somewhat undesirable fate. Soon he was to take his father's throne - he knew this, for old Amenhotep was gravely ill, his very life force drained by an unknown infirmity that the palace physicians had never encountered before. Akhenaten did not want the old man to die. If he lost his father, he would have no one to turn to that he could feel safe asking for advice. It had been proven too many times to Akhenaten within his twenty-two years that the viziers were working often for their own gain, and not even the High Priests could be fully trusted.

Lately, Akhenaten felt an inescapable sense of being smothered. As long as he was anywhere in or around the palace, his elders stalked him, ceaselessly reminding him that he was soon to be burdened with the yoke of an entire nation, that he needed to quit bumbling around, wasting precious time. No one was more forceful in their campaign to assure him that he was wasting his time, than his own mother, Kiya. The aged Queen was in good health, as was her mental fortitude. She found no greater joy than telling everyone she knew what they were doing wrong with their lives. Ra forgive old Queen Kiya, but she had not the gift of tact.

Akhenaten had endured enough, and thus he had decided to ride out from the palace upon the swiftest stallion in his possession, a pure black steed by the name of Sutekh. Akhenaten knew as he flew through the vast, sultry desert that he could not truly run from his troubles, but he nevertheless needed these precious hours of freedom to maintain his sanity. He was as a rope under stain, just a few threads shy of his breaking point. What the Prince really needed was someone who understood him, who would simply talk to him and try to make him feel better, not sink him with the crushing weights of politics.

Akhenaten pushed the negative things out of his mind to the best of his ability. He admired the glistening sands that seemed to glow a vibrant gold, with hints of orange, as the sun began its journey across the sky, painting the eastern half of the heavens with a magnificent palette of reds, pinks and even violet. Akhenaten's heart sank. Yes, the sky looked breathtakingly beautiful and serene now, but by the middle of the afternoon there would be rainfall, perhaps even a thunderstorm. This was not so surprising, considering it was the beginning of the Rainy Season, but Akhenaten was nevertheless disappointed. He would have to return by a little after noon to avoid the storm if it approached more swiftly than he predicted.

"Oh Sutekh, why is it that my closest companion is not even human? Am I that detestable?" Akhenaten sighed. The horse did not respond to the Prince's query, merely looked to the left, and then the right, and picked up speed.

Akhenaten decided then that he would try to leave Thebes for a while everyday, or at least as often as he could. There were plenty of places nearby he could explore, and starting tomorrow he could bring a few light weapons in case he ran into trouble, or wanted to hunt some fresh game. Aye, some of the wild game would likely be much better than the bland meat of cows that was usually served at the palace.

Subconsciously, he swept his longish black hair away from his eyes, and back behind his pierced ears. By law of tradition, he was supposed to have had his head shaved over save for a prince's lock and kept it such since he was twelve, but he refused. He liked having longer hair. He knew he should cherish it, too, because if he were not heir to the throne of Khemet, he would have lost it by force.

Small huts formed of mineral-rich Nile clay passed in rapid succession before the Prince's eyes as he rode through the outskirts of Thebes - the poorer people populated this area. The poorest became either slaves or criminals - sometimes both.

Akhenaten had been taught this by his father. Amenhotep had said that the only trustworthy slaves are those who have not the will to fight. That meant they had to be undernourished, overworked, and could be allowed only enough sleep to ensure their survival. Akhenaten thought it was perhaps this sort of treatment that caused slaves to turn sour. He thought that if slaves were treated more like friends or family members, they would be more loyal.

He had proved this point with his own slaves, he even broke bread with them, but the old Pharaoh refused to admit that he could be wrong on such a point. He said he'd once though of slaves as Akhenaten did, but was betrayed by one when Akhenaten was just a few years old.

That was nigh the only thing that Prince and Pharaoh had ever disagreed upon. Akhenaten would have argued on other things, but he did not have the will or the sheer audacity to confront his father.

As Sutekh approached the Temple of Osiris, he instinctively slowed. Akhenaten did not want to visit this, the worship centre of the god of the dead, but it seemed now he had no choice. He had to pray for his father, and then buy an animal for a sacrifice, that Osiris may give Amenhotep renewed life on earth, not the afterlife.

The sun beat on nineteen year old Ksunamun as she stumbled through the desert. She prayed to Atem-Ra that the oasis she saw almost a league ahead of her wasn't a beautiful mirage. She no longer knew how long she'd been wandering. The place she had lived was no longer home. That was all the young, black haired woman was sure of anymore. Her azure eyes, so rare in this land, were glazed with unshed tears. Weeping was one thing she would not permit herself to do. She would find some way to survive, but not cry.

All she owned materially now was the pale organza dress she wore, and a small, tattered water flask that was now empty. She still had her magic, though. That small magic, that could change small things, resulting in a change on a larger scale. That magic that was her gods-given gift. What she didn't realize was how she used it subconsciously, that her magic had brought her here. Indeed, it controlled her more than she controlled it.

The oasis appeared to be coming closer to her. She wandered until she knew that it did indeed exist, and collapsed on the lush green grass. She had not slept for days, and she would be damned if she would not find some rest now before anything else.

At the palace, all the High Priests had been summoned by Amenhotep's vizier, Neruaten. With infinite concern etched in the old man's rugged features, he beseeched the priests to perform a sacrifice. More than one would be needed, he expected, but at least they could offer one now to Osiris, and then later offer more.

The priests thought it a wise idea indeed, but were still slightly offended that the medicine of mortal hands had been sought before the aid of the gods. They agreed to perform a ceremony all the same, because they loved their Pharaoh, and he had supported them throughout his entire reign.

The High Priest of Osiris's robes seemed to radiate light as he stood from the stool he had rested upon. He was a younger man, around twenty-eight, but he had endured many trials, which had left him with lasting afflictions that caused him much pain. With effort, he leaned upon his golden staff, an item topped with a large, jewel encrusted ankh. "Neruaten, what do you plan on sacrificing that would stir the great Osiris to grant Pharaoh Amenhotep more days upon this earth? That would require much, I think, for it was Osiris who made the Pharaoh ill in the first place."

The High Priest of Atem stood then, and all eyes at once were riveted to the regal figure. If one did not know better, he would swear upon first glance that this man was the Pharaoh. His robes were white and blue, and he stood imperiously, black eyes flashing despite their dark colour. He was Akhenaten's age, and had only become High Priest within the last full moon. "I think," said he, in a resonant voice that captured all, "That perhaps the Pharaoh's illness is a test." He paused, searching the faces of his fellow priests for any objection. It appeared they thought he had a valid opinion. He continued. "Perhaps Atem is testing our faith in him. We must make a sacrifice to Atem, as well, that he may persuade Osiris, should we be unable to. Then we must all lead the lesser priests and priestesses in a three day period of prayer and fasting."

Neruaten seemed pleased with the idea for a brief second, and then sadness flashed in his brown eyes.

"What is wrong, Neruaten?" the priestess of Bast asked quietly.

"It will take a while to obtain the sacrificial animals, I am afraid." he said slowly, "I wanted to use a lion. We have one, but we shall need another."

"One can be caught by two soldiers in no time, Neruaten." The High Priest of Atem assured, "You have a brilliant idea. Offer a King of the savannah to preserve the King of Khemet." everyone seemed to agree, but it was a silent acquiescence, a few simple nods, nothing more.

"Well then, I suppose I will have to go and send two soldiers out." Neruaten said with finality, "Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen." he turned and swept out of the chamber.

"Osiris, please, I beg of you, just give him seven more days!" Akhenaten wailed against the wall. He was within the torch-lit prayer chamber at Osiris's temple. Only nobles were allowed in here. Currently, Akhenaten was alone. He was secretly gad he was, for he was now in a wretched state. He had torn at his robes in despair, as was the custom, and his cheeks were stained with tears. Atem help him, he did not want to let his father go!

Akhenaten turned so his back was to the wall, and allowed himself to sink to the ground. All the worst events in his life were coming back to him now in an inescapable flood. This chamber held too many memories. He had been here many times before, and it was nearly always to weep incessantly over something he wished he could either change or ignore. The pain was almost unbearable.

The memory of his baby sister, who had died when she was but three days old. He was only seven when it happened, but he remembered her chubby little cheeks, her amber eyes, and of course, her name, Nefertiti. He had grown so fond of having a little sister in those three short days, and then the breath just left her tiny body, tearing the family. It still hurt Akhenaten to this day. His mother had nearly killed herself, she had been so devastated.

Another thing that happened in his childhood still haunted him. Horemheb, a distant relative, had tried to kill the Prince when he had been just twelve years old. Horemheb had been thirty-five at the time. Horemheb had become jealous of Akhenaten, because until Akhenaten had been born, it was Horemheb who had been crown Prince of Khemet because after Ankhsutukh and Amenhotep, there was no male directly in line to take the throne. It just happened to be that the two princes did not meet until the then child Akhenaten was twelve. It was then that the entire palace was celebrating Akhenaten becoming a man, and so for this reason the whole royal family had been summoned to the palace for the festivities. It was only by chance that Horemheb was foiled, by the now deceased High Priest of Atem-Ra. Simply recalling this made Akhenaten shiver. Horemheb was still in the palace dungeon, and was to remain there for the rest of his days.

The other major event he would rather forget had occurred much more recently. A month ago, he had been rejected by his betrothed. It was the first time ever that Akhenaten knew of, that a crown Prince of Khemet had been rejected by a woman. She, that is, Saraia, a noble girl, found out that her parents would not get the promised dowry, and she would not get any money, either. She had asked for ten thousand pieces of gold, an impossible sum for anyone.

Now the old Pharaoh Amenhotep was inadvertently pleading with Akhenaten to find a bride, by saying that he desperately wanted to see the Prince get married before he died.

There were many other, smaller things, some not even worth mentioning. They were just large enough to get under Akhenaten's skin and irritate him, that was all.

In retrospect, Akhenaten could not help chuckling to himself cynically. He had no luck whatsoever with females, did he? He tried to cheer himself up by telling himself that Saraia was ugly. It did not work. She was beautiful; it was her heart that was hideous. She was cold and selfish. When she looked at someone, she was only interested in how much gold they possessed, not their intelligence or kindness. She did not even care their age or appearance, as long as they would keep her in luxury. Remembering this made Akhenaten feel better. He wanted a woman who wanted him, not his wealth or his position. It was for the best that Saraia had rejected him.

Tears yet flowed freely from Akhenaten's amber eyes. He knew what was happening; he was having another nervous breakdown. He had had many in the last year. The idea that his life would only become harder as time went on made him want to scream, weep, and die all at once. Oh, to be a laid-back farmer, and to have the blessing of only having to worry about a small plot of land! That would be so grand, so simple. The complexities of politics made Akhenaten feel as though he would explode. It was not that he was stupid, he was far from it. It was simply that politics did not suit him. At heart he was a musician, he sang to himself all the time, and played the lire for his parents.

Akhenaten's train of thought was disrupted by the sound of approaching footfalls. It was the Priest. Akhenaten looked up, and met the gaze of the wizened holy man. He was thrice Akhenaten's age, but in rugged good health. He wore loose white robes, and upon his right shoulder was a cheetah skin. "My Prince, how may I serve you?" The Priest asked benevolently, "I see you have been praying."

"Aye," Akhenaten conceded, wiping a tear from his eye, "And it is no secret for whom I pray."

"Your father." it was a statement, not a question.

"I wish to offer a sacrifice to Osiris, Noble Priest, that my father may live a while longer."

The priest offered a hand to Akhenaten, and helped the Prince to his feet. "I think," said he, "That because you are an incarnation of Atem-Ra, only a gazelle fawn should be required to give your father more time. Osiris smiles down upon you, Akhenaten; you need not do much to merit his favour."

"I hope with all sincerity that you are correct." Akhenaten sighed. "If he smiles down on me though, he must be the only god."

"Your past makes you say that, yea?" the priest replied sagely.

"Indubitably."

"I am sure that you will find happiness and inner peace soon, my Prince. I sense that joy does await you, all you need is patience."

Akhenaten bit his tongue. It was a shame the priest could not be more specific, and tell him where he could find this alleged happiness.

"Come with me, Prince Akhenaten. We shall choose the animal for your sacrifice, and I shall offer it to Osiris with incense and myrrh."

"Thank you, Noble Priest." Akhenaten sighed, following the priest to outdoor market. This market was packed with vendors selling various animals, all of which were held in wooden cages so small that the creatures bound within could barely breathe. The variety of beasts was incredible. Sheep, pure white lambs, zebras, antelopes, crocodiles, even large cats, such as cheetahs, leopards, and lions. Only the most wealthy could afford to purchase the large cats.

Akhenaten strayed from the priest's side, and to a stall where a wiry, dark skinned vendor stood, garbed in plain cream robes and a matching turban. He was in front of an assembly of caged gazelles. Most were full-grown, lying docile within their cages, the odd one munching contently on some dry grass.

Akhenaten shielded his eyes from the sun with his hand and greeted the vendor. "Good day, sir."

"And to you." the vendor replied, oblivious to Akhenaten's rank.