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460 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1990
Their loss had not brought them together, indeed without music, entertainments or the feasting of guests, the bare bones of their estrangement from one another began to show through, stark and cruel. Nubnofret had completely withdrawn from them all. Hori, too, had retreated into his private hell where even Sheritra, though they spent much time together, could not follow.
Falling silent, it occurred to him suddenly that the rhythm was familiar because the words were the building blocks of a spell, and as every magician knew, spells had a particular flow to them, when chanted, that poetry did not have. I have been singing a spell of some kind, he thought, sitting back with a shudder of apprehension. That was stupid of me, to voice and thus give power to something that I do not understand. I have no idea what just came out of my mouth.
Seventy days imprisoned here, away from Harmin, away from Tbubui, no desert sunsets feeding honeyed dates to the yellow dog, no board games played lazily under the palms, no Harmin in my bed.
His father had ceased to be a calm, kindly man, and had let the administration of the country slide towards a chaos that could well ruin them all. His mother was imprisoned in an icy unhappiness. Sheritra’s response to his revelations about Tbubui had been instantly selfish and defensive of Harmin, and it was clear that her world had shrunk to the lineaments of his body.
Khaemuast acarició pensativamente el pergamino. Aquello pertenecía al reino de lo urgente, lo sagrado, algo de vital importancia para el príncipe cuyos quebradizos huesos lo agarraban tan posesivamente. «Al menos, me merezco echarle un vistazo —pensó Khaemuast, en un arrebato de rebelión contra su innata virtud—. Honro a los muertos con mis restauraciones. Que este muerto me honre a mí, por una vez, en mi búsqueda de conocimientos».
«No puedo vivir sin ella —pensó—. No puedo volver a la vida que llevaba antes. Sería la desolación, la soledad, sería la muerte. Ella me ha cambiado, ha estado trabajando en mí desde el principio. Ya no soy el Khaemuast de Nubnofret, el padre de Hori, la mano derecha de Ramsés. Soy el amante de Tbubui solamente.»
—Deudas y propiedades, servicios prestados y hechizos para obligar a los dioses —dijo el dios, suavemente—. Nada de eso toca el vasto y oscuro lago de orgullo espiritual que permanece inalterado en la esencia de tu ser. El deber no lo ha alcanzado. Tus sufrimientos no han provocado siquiera una ondulación en su superficie. Crees aún que, mientras cumplas con tus obligaciones espirituales, deberías ser recompensado, o con la cancelación de una deuda o con el fin de un sufrimiento que aún consideras injusto. Los años no te han dejado nada más que resentimiento, príncipe.