Wardens of Eternity Read online

Still, if I were in his place, I wouldn’t allow myself to grieve in front of others. What could he or I or anyone do with sympathy? It couldn’t change anything. The only thing to do, as he said, was carry on.

  “What you did tonight was fearless,” he said at last. “I’ll be eternally grateful for your trying to protect my family. Your heart is strong—and it’s not just your queen’s blood. You are astonishing, Ziva. I haven’t known you long, but I know you’re capable of anything.”

  It seemed as though ‘thank you’ couldn’t express how grateful and inspired his words made me feel. “I’m honored you have such faith in me,” I told him. “I only hope I can live up to it.”

  One side of his mouth pulled into a tiny smile. “You have—and I pray you find equal faith in me.”

  “I do,” I urged.

  His hand lifted and held the side of my face, his skin warm as his fingers threaded into my hair, his thumb brushing the line of my jaw. “Get some rest.”

  He pulled away and left me standing alone in the sudden absence of his heat. I hadn’t noticed my hammering pulse until now.

  Across the hall was an empty, dark, and quiet room I’d chosen for myself. I pulled the curtains to block out the morning sunlight and climbed into the huge bed. Nothing had ever felt softer or sweeter. I lay there, praying Sayer was right and I’d catch sleep quickly, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw Nasira’s broken body. Haya’s lifeless form. Blood on the pavement glittering in the beam of headlights. I heard the whine and grind of the car as it was crushed. Kauket’s horrible voice as she repeated Haya’s last words to her daughter. Those visions and sounds followed me into my nightmares.

  I woke to harsh knocking on the door. I had no idea how long I had slept. I threw the blankets off and climbed out of bed. In the hallway stood Cyrene.

  Before I could say anything, she announced, “Gear up. We’re flying to Cairo.”

  Cyrene had chartered an entire Imperial Airways airship for our voyage. The single-deck vessel was a fraction of the size of the gigantic zeppelin we’d crossed the Atlantic on, but it was at least as luxurious. The interior was made of several compartments besides the main passenger seating, including two lavatories, a lounge, and a dining room. As we approached Cairo, I was glued to the porthole at my seat. I couldn’t contain my excitement. Our descent from the clouds was achingly slow. My desperation to see Egypt with my own eyes was maddening.

  Nasira passed me on the observation deck and I lifted my head, hoping she’d notice me and say something. We hadn’t spoken since the night her mother died. I’d never been around a grieving person I cared so much about. I didn’t know what I could do to make her hurt less. Sayer explained to me how everyone grieved differently, just as they worked or loved differently. He mercifully had not shut me out as his sister had, though he assured me not to take her behavior personally. Nasira felt all her emotions with as much passion as anyone could, and she did not hide them or her thoughts.

  She made me realize I tended to do the opposite, perhaps because there’d never been anyone to express my emotions to. I bottled them up so only I suffered them. Nasira made sure everyone around her felt the way she did. I supposed there were two kinds of people, those who took their feelings out on others and those who took their feelings out on themselves. Sayer and I were a lot alike; I knew which type he was. What I didn’t know, and what he wouldn’t give away, was how much he suffered beneath the surface.

  Soon the milky haze of clouds turned to gold as Egypt’s endless desert gleamed into view. I glued myself to the window to take it all in. When I saw the colossal sphinx of sand and stone, tears crept down my cheeks. She was the most beautiful and unreal thing I’d ever laid eyes on. Beyond her, the trio of pyramids she’d watchfully protected for thousands of years rose toward the sun. No photographs could have possibly captured their majesty in real life.

  The muddy waters of the Nile, its flooded banks green with crops, divided the desert from the cramped, bustling city of Cairo. We passed low over its flat-topped roofs and shining domes, our gentle wake brushing the fronds of palm trees. I couldn’t wait to get out of this steel balloon and into the streets to explore.

  Our ship steered toward the airport, a sprawling building surrounded by aircrafts of all shapes and sizes from single passenger jets to luxurious airliners. Zeppelins, both large and small, hovered above the ground, tethered by mooring lines. Cairo was already one of the busiest airports in the world and had grown into the gateway to the rest of Africa, Asia, and Australia. Two flags waved from the roof, the British and Egyptian Nationalist flags. We slowed, and I watched the ground crew snatch our own mooring lines and tie us down. Our captain’s voice came over the intercom, announcing our arrival and instructing us to proceed to the dock. We gathered our things and emerged into air so dry and hot I felt as though I were standing in front of an open oven. I drew a deep breath with difficulty.

  “Take this,” Sayer said, appearing at my side. In his hand was a long scarf, and he helped me wrap it around my neck and over my nose and mouth, giving me immediate relief. He adjusted his own scarf and pulled a hood over the top of his head.

  “Thank you!” I shouted over the deafening diesel engine of the airship.

  He nodded once to acknowledge my thanks.

  Men wearing the traditional jellabiya lead tawny camels, taller than any horse, by roped halters. I smelled spices from a tea cart just outside the terminal entrance. The woman attending the cart smiled at me. I knew she wasn’t Medjai—there was no spark of magic about her—but her skin, eyes, all of her . . . She looked like me. Most of the people here looked like me. This land was where I’d been born.

  Sayer leaned close and put a hand to the small of my back. “Welcome to Egypt. You are home.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  I didn’t listen to a word of Cyrene’s instructions, and I paid no attention to any of the others. My focus was solely on taking in absolutely every last detail around me.

  European, American, and Asian couples and families headed to and from the planes and airships carrying their luggage or leading attendants carrying their luggage. Quite a few of them, people of all nationalities, spoke French. I saw a team of what could only be archaeologists. The men and women were dressed too practically and carried too much gear on their backs to be tourists. I’d need to pick up one of those wide-brimmed hats myself. Spending my life in the perpetual diesel smog of Manhattan had not prepared me for this strong sunlight.

  A small hand snatched my suitcase from me, taking me by surprise. A boy, maybe nine or ten, seemed to hold it hostage with one palm open. “Baksheesh,” he demanded several times. “I will carry your bag for you. It’s too heavy for you.” Nasira swatted at him, speedily snarling something in Arabic, and won back my suitcase.

  Someone shouted in German, grabbing my attention. I turned and saw two dozen or so uniformed soldiers marching away from a tethered zeppelin designed plainly like it was specifically for cargo, not luxury. The red sashes around the soldiers’ left arms were unmistakable. Nazis. Descending the cargo ramp from the zeppelin’s underbelly were several ten-foot-tall bipedal mechanical suits, spewing black diesel smoke, piloted by soldiers whose faces were protected behind reinforced metal mesh. Hydraulics hissed and made the suits jerk, rattling the automatic guns in their chunky hands.

  “What on earth are those?” I asked, bewildered and a little nervous.

  “I’ve never seen anything like them,” Sayer remarked, his voice dark and low.

  Observing the troops and machines was a smartly dressed pair whose faces were concealed by sunglasses: a very tall white man in an officer’s cap, the tails of his decorated coat waving in the wind, and a slim civilian woman with blond hair curled and pinned impeccably behind her ears. She wore a lovely duck egg blue dress with fluttery sleeves and a matching cloche. Whoever she was, she was high society. Other soldiers arranged boxes and unloaded crates from the cargo platform that had recently been dropped from the a
irship’s belly.

  Before I could wonder too long about why Germans would come here, considering how much was going on in their homeland, two soldiers in brown British uniforms approached the officer and his female companion. They were armed, but their rifles were secured in holsters behind their heads. After a few moments, the British soldiers walked away. I understood the British currently occupied Egypt and, though there was no official war yet between them and Germany, the relations had to have been tense.

  “What do you suppose they’re here for?” Sayer asked, appearing beside me.

  “I’m not sure,” I replied. “From the looks of all they brought, they intend to stay a while.”

  “Hopefully they keep out of our way,” Sayer muttered. “We don’t need to get caught up with Nazis or the British.”

  I nodded in agreement and continued to watch the soldiers. The woman in the dress called to the team of archaeologists and they conversed rapidly in German over the contents of a canvas bag.

  “That concerns me,” Sayer murmured low. “German archaeologists working by themselves—nothing unusual. German archaeologists working with soldiers is an issue. They’ve been digging all over Europe for Ancient Nordic artifacts, anything magical and related to their people’s history. I’m afraid to know what they’re doing here.”

  The German woman turned her face toward me and lowered her sunglasses. Her red lips formed a tight line as she studied me in return. I wondered who she was and why she traveled with soldiers. One of them dropped a crate and she whirled on him hotly, barking orders.

  “Come on,” Sayer said, and I started to follow him. “We’re off to the Pyramidion now. You’ll love it there.”

  We climbed into cars along with the rest of the Medjai and drove away from the airport. The heat made the horizon dance and sway to the beat of Cairo’s urban bustle. Both swanky and rickety motorcars honked at donkey carts and camels packing the streets, which grew more cramped the farther into the city’s heart we roamed. The flat-roofed buildings shone gold in the sun and the infinite shades and colors of shutters, curtains, flowers, fruits, intricately designed rugs, and market carts were an exciting feast for the eyes.

  I rolled down my window to see better—to experience Cairo. The aromas of spices and curing meats I’d once imagined in my head had come to life deliciously. It took everything in me not to open my door and leap out into the chaos, but I would remain where I was instructed and obey. For now.

  Sitting at small tables outside restaurants and tobacco shops were jellabiya-clad Egyptians and Westerners in the latest European and American fashions. Men smoked fat cigars and women lounged beneath parasols and hats. People in every direction chatted in a variety of languages. I noticed the Western hairstyle of pinning up the hair in the front with longer curls in the back was popular among Egyptian women. Some of them even wore Western buttoned dresses with short, puffy sleeves. Common were thick lines of kohl around eyes, reminding me of the ancient style, and bold scarlet lips.

  “Lots of Egyptian women don’t dress much differently than American women,” I observed.

  “That’s due to European occupation,” Sayer said with a shrug. “Colonialism has . . . a smothering effect. The official language of Egypt’s government isn’t Egyptian Arabic. It’s French.”

  As we turned a corner, I noticed the crowds on both our sides grew denser and gradually took up more and more of the street. Through the shouts, there came a rhythm—a chant, I was sure of it. I strained to make out exactly what the people chanted, but the words were lost among the blend of French, Arabic, and English outbursts. Our car slowed to a crawl as the people swamped us and barely let us pass. Their angry faces and balled fists filled my vision. Hands beat on the hood and trunk of our car and those in front of us.

  A woman’s furious shouts crashed through my window: “Egypt is ours! Get out! No British!”

  Sayer put a gentle hand on the back of mine. “Protests against British occupation grow worse every year,” he explained. “Britain returned Egypt’s independence years ago, but their military presence remains. The treaty was a meaningless piece of paper. They’ll never give up Egypt, especially after the Great War. They need control of the Suez Canal. Britain doesn’t have the land to farm enough food to sustain its population, which is why they invaded and seized so many countries. The Suez is their primary trade route and strategically important passage between the West and the East. Britain can’t afford to lose it, especially now.”

  I nodded, understanding. “And the Egyptian people want control of our own country and resources, which we deserve. With war imminent once again, I understand why the British won’t leave.”

  “The situation is frightening,” Sayer admitted. “Different kingdoms have fought over Egypt since the beginning of its history.”

  We pulled onto a quieter street where off to our right rose a fifteen- or sixteen-foot solid stucco wall. Above it draped heavy branches thick with leaves. The acacia trees and their heavy yellow flowers towered over the road, but I caught glimpses of the massive building they concealed. We rounded the curb and approached an iron gate, which parted wide for us to pass through and became enveloped in dense bushes of pink Egyptian star clusters. Their blooms brushed the side of our motorcar as we pulled forward toward an incredible courtyard. The walls and dense foliage made this place seem quieter, as though we’d wandered into another world altogether.

  The Pyramidion itself turned out to be a magnificent palatial estate. Two wings of long, beautiful colonnades guarded both sides of the courtyard. The second-story windows, twice the height of the average man, boasted elegant shutters and breezy linen curtains. Each sat in its own arched alcove with a small, private balcony overlooking the gardens. We rolled in front of the palace’s main wing, where an incredibly long portico spanned the entrance’s entire length. A trio of gigantic doors, shuttered and topped with half-moon transom windows, greeted us beneath a wide balcony. A couple of Medjai waved at us from its balustrade.

  We stopped by a glittering fountain filled with gigantic blue lotus blossoms, the color reminding me of Anubis’s eyes. When I opened my door and stepped out, I deeply inhaled the fresh air, fragrant with flowers and earth. The temperature was very warm, but dry and bearable, and the courtyard patio was made of a variety of flat stones fitted together like a puzzle. Pots of flowering white jasmine and rich dragonwort sat in corners and on steps, and green vines coiled and hung from trellises over iron patio tables and chairs. Medjai emerged through bright turquoise-painted and natural-stained wooden doors to welcome their visitors. The sounds of footsteps blended with the tweeting of birds and human voices.

  “Baba!”

  I turned my head in the direction of Nasira’s shrill, gleeful cry and saw her burst out of the crowd and leap into the arms of a bearded man halfway down the steps of the portico. He squeezed her tightly as though the wind might carry her away if he loosened his grip. His mouth moved, but I couldn’t make out what he said to her. Sayer slipped past me and when his father saw him, he raised an arm to grip his son’s shoulder and tug him into their embrace. They grieved together for the first time over their loss and I grew slowly aware of how quiet everyone else had become.

  When they parted, Nasira’s father kissed her on top of her head. He was a handsome man with a kind gaze and warm, umber skin. He hadn’t spoken a word to me yet, but I saw where Sayer got his gentleness.

  Sayer came to my side and placed a hand on the small of my back. “Father, this is Ziva Mereniset,” he said.

  His father’s eyes widened and then grew so very, very sad. “You look like your mother. I’m honored to meet you. My name is Tariq Bahri.”

  “I can’t even begin to express how terribly sorry I am over the loss of your wife,” I said, trying not to think about Nasira’s biting words after I’d offered my condolences. “Haya was kind to me.”

  “Your words are appreciated,” he replied. “Please, follow me to your suite. Your belongings will be dro
pped off there shortly.”

  As soon as I began to follow him, I felt a tug at my hand. I turned. Nasira offered me a kind smile. It was the first time she’d looked at me since that night. Perhaps she felt more at peace now that she was home and reunited with her father. Of course, I forgave her for shutting me out. Her grief wasn’t about me. I was glad, though, to see her smile, weak as it was. However she was able to heal, I hoped she did. I knew from experience, even if she’d been right and I’d never loved anyone before, I still knew pain—the pain of loneliness and fear and abandonment. She would heal, like I had, but that deep, deep wound would scar, like mine had.

  I smiled back at her, offering as much kindness as I could with a simple look. Then I followed Tariq into my home.

  My home.

  The rose granite floor of the foyer was complimented with geometric mosaic designs, each tesserae shining with gold leaf. A soft current of perfumed air flowed from the main doors and through the perimeter of lotus columns around an open peristyle. The garden within was a lush refuge and reminded me more of an original Egyptian peristyle than a Greek or Roman one.

  In the foyer, plush leather and upholstered furniture with brass hardware sat around polished and glittering wood coffee and buffet tables. Limestone extracts carved with Egyptian hieroglyphs were mounted on the wood paneled wall, and it took everything in me not to reach out and run my fingers over the faces of beautiful rose granite busts of kings and queens sitting on pedestals. I marveled at framed displays of glossy faience amulets, gemstone-encrusted pectorals, and invaluable jewelry from antiquity. Iron chandeliers hanging from a concave limestone-inlaid ceiling, and glass lamps on end tables offered a warm glow to the long and narrow room.

  “I understand this is your first time back in Egypt since you were born,” Tariq said as he led me around the peristyle and into a wide corridor with a very high, arched ceiling. “Cyrene has explained your situation to me. I’m also very sorry for the loss of your parents.”