Lord of the Two Lands by Judith Tarr Page A

entertaining her patron at two rooms’ remove and Sekhmet purring on her middle, Meriamon rested as she had not since she began her journey. She had her solitude, she was full of wine and meat and barley bread, in the morning she would have duties that she was glad of. She would have liked a proper headrest instead of these smothering cushions, and the blankets smelled faintly of horses, but she was comfortable, stroking the cat, half-dreaming in the nightlamp’s flicker.
    Her shadow moved softly about the room, part in time with the lamp, part in rhythm with her breathing. It wanted to be freed, simply to go its own way, apart from her.
    “No,” she said to it, barely to be heard. “Not among strangers.”
    It reared up, a tall slender shape, upright like a man but longer-limbed, more sinuously supple. For an instant as it turned its head toward her she saw a long muzzle with a glint of fangs, sharp pointed ears, bright beast-eyes that gleamed in the dark.
    “If that is the shape you wish,” she said, “then you certainly may not go out. The Hellenes have killed or conquered all the Parsa. There’s nothing left to hunt.”
    Not hunt, the eyes said. Walk. Run. Fly. Be free. Sun’s rising would bring it back. That was its word. Would she doubt it?
    “I don’t doubt you,” she said. “I fear for you.”
    It would take care that no one caught it, or even saw it.
    She was wavering. She firmed her will. “Tomorrow night. Maybe. If all is well.”
    It strained, resisting. After a moment, when she did not yield, it subsided. Its mood was so much like Niko’s that she laughed, which pleased it not at all. Yet, like Niko, for all its sulks and sullenness it was obedient. As she opened her will to sleep, her shadow came and stood over her, guarding her against the night.
    o0o
    On the third day after the battle, the king summoned Meriamon. He gave her time to prepare; to finish what she had been doing in the hospital, to run to the tent, even to manage a hasty toilet. Thaïs was there to help her, barely awake after a late night but alert enough to play lady’s maid.
    She insisted that Meriamon wear the peplos Phylinna had just that morning finished, folds of soft cream-colored wool with embroidery round the hem. The mantle that went with it was purple—true Tyrian, and where Thaïs had got it, or how she had been able to pay for it, Meriamon was afraid to ask.
    Not that she was given time. Thaïs had paints in plenty for lips and face and eyes, and she was determined that Meriamon use them.
    It was strange to be a woman again, to look at herself in the little bronze mirror and see the Meriamon who had sung before the god in Thebes, but in the dress of a Greek lady, in wool that no priest would wear because he reckoned it unclean.
    She had lost that compunction on the road south of Tyre. Still, she would have preferred a dress of fine Egyptian linen, a wig to cover her hair, and jewels to make her splendid. They would have been armor and banner before this alien king.
    Thaïs could remedy that, somewhat. The earrings were Persian booty, beryl and carnelian set in soft pure gold. The necklace was from Athens, a collar of golden flowers. The bracelets were from somewhere far in the north, heavy gold with a dance of horsemen round a fabulous beast like a winged, eagle-headed sphinx.
    “There,” said Thaïs, stepping back to survey her handiwork. “You look like a lady of quality.”
    “Will that shock the king, do you think?” Meriamon asked.
    Thaïs laughed. “Nothing shocks Alexander! Now go, you’re keeping him waiting.”
    o0o
    Even before Meriamon came into the king’s tent, she could hear the raised voices. To her considerable surprise, the guard not only admitted her, he sent a man along with her, a dour Macedonian whose beard showed a sprinkling of grey.
    The anteroom was full of people, not all Macedonian by any means, and few of them soldiers. Their expressions ranged from squirming discomfort to