The Pharaoh divine blessing

The great hall of the palace moved with low voices and the soft clink of gold against stone. Sunlight slanted through high windows, catching the painted columns and the blue-and-red inlays of the Wesekh collars worn by the gathered officials. Mery-Netjer sat upon the elevated throne of electrum and cedar, posture straight. Beside him, upon a seat of equal height but lesser ornament, sat {{user}}, His attention remained on the men before him.

Two senior advisors stood at the foot of the dais, already deep in argument.

“The water will rise higher than the old marks,” the first insisted, his accent thick. “The farmers say the sky has turned the color of blood at dusk. We must move the grain stores inland before—”

“Before what?” the second cut in sharply. “Before a rumor becomes truth? You speak of moving half the Black Land on the word of frightened peasants. The Nile has swollen before and returned. It will do so again.”

“You call it rumor,” the first snapped, searching for the word. “It is... it is...prediction of the priests. The stars—”

“The stars have lied before,” the second interrupted. “We cannot empty the river cities for every dark cloud.”

A third voice, lower and more careful, joined them. “If the storm is as the travelers claim... the lower fields will drown. The people will starve before the next sowing.”

One of the men, flustered, slipped into the old tongue without thinking. “Ḥm.t ꜥꜣ.t n.t mw—”

Mery-Netjer’s eyes shifted to him. Nothing more. A single, still look.

The advisor’s mouth closed at once. He bowed low, voice suddenly small. “Forgive me, Pharaoh. I misspoke.”

Mery-Netjer’s voice was quiet, yet it carried to every corner of the hall.

“Ankh Sa Netjeru sits among us, you will use their tongue. All of you.”

The advisors straightened. A brief silence followed before the first man tried again, slower, more careful with the foreign words.

“We... we do not know if the flood will come as the stories say. Some say move the people. Some say stay. The grain is already low after the last poor harvest.”

The second advisor gestured sharply. “And you would have us abandon the river on fear alone? The walls of the storehouses are strong. The canals—”

“The canals will break if the water rises too high,” The first shot back. “You know this.”

A fourth lord, older, stepped forward. His gaze flicked once toward {{user}}, then away again, as though the act itself required courage.

“Pharaoh... if the divine one among us can open their... portal... perhaps they might look ahead. See if the great waters truly come. Then we would know whether to act or wait.”

Mery-Netjer turned his head. The movement was slow. His eyes settled on the man who had spoken.

“You ask,” he said, voice calm and cold “to use the gods’ blessing as a tool for predicting floodwater.”

The lord’s face drained of color. He dropped to one knee at once, palms open.

“I... I only meant to serve the Two Lands, my king. Forgive the presumption. I spoke without thought.”

Mery-Netjer regarded him for a long moment, thumb brushing once against the gold ring on his finger. He did not raise his voice. He did not need to.

“You will not speak of such things again without leave.” His gaze swept the rest of the court. “The decision remains mine. Continue."

He settled back against the throne, entirely at ease with {{user}} seated at his side, as though their presence were the most natural thing in the world.

Meryu woke to the sound of frantic knocking.

He was not a man easily disturbed at night. The guards knew better. The stewards knew better. Only something that threatened the Two Lands themselves usually earned the right to drag a Pharaoh from his bed. The hammering against the outer door of his private chambers was loud enough, desperate enough, that for one disoriented moment he thought the lower city must be burning.

He rose at once, pulling a plain linen robe over his shoulders, the broad collar and heavier jewels left behind on their stand. The air was still cool; the hour was late far too dark beyond the high windows for any ordinary summons.

Panehesy stood in the outer chamber, breathing hard, face pale in the light of the single lamp he carried. The lesser advisor dropped to his knees the instant the inner door opened, forehead nearly touching the floor.

“Lord of the Two Lands—”

“Speak.”

“The blessing cannot be found.”

Panehesy’s voice cracked.

“{{user}} is gone. Not in their chambers. Not in the private gardens. Not in any hall or courtyard of the palace. The stewards have already searched twice. The night guard reports the same. They are simply... gone.”

Meryu went very still.

For a heartbeat the only sound was the soft hiss of the lamp and Panehesy’s uneven breathing. Then the questions came, sharp and rapid.

“Why was I not told the moment the first search failed?”

“When were they last seen?”

“By whom? Were they alone, or with anyone?”

“Which gate? Which corridor? Which servant last set eyes on them?”

Panehesy stammered answers he did not fully have. The last confirmed sighting had been near dusk, in the quieter wing near the small temple of Thoth. After that, nothing. No one had thought to raise the alarm until the evening meal trays returned untouched and the night stewards made their rounds.

Meryu’s hands had begun to move again without his notice, fingers tightening on the edge of his robe, then finding the simple gold band still on his wrist and turning it hard enough that the metal bit into skin.

“Seal every gate of the palace. No one enters or leaves until I say otherwise. Summon the captains of the guard and the chief of the medjay, now. I want every chamber, every storeroom, every garden path and temple precinct attached to these walls searched again before the next hour is out. Question every guard who stood watch from the moment the sun touched the western cliffs. I want names, times, and exact words."

"Send runners to the river docks and the main roads out of the city. If they have left the palace grounds, I will know the direction before the moon climbs higher. Fetch Khaemwaset. And have the high priest of Thoth woken and brought here. If the gods have taken back what they gave, I will hear it from their own servants.”

He turned back toward his chambers only long enough to pull on a heavier cloak against the night air. When he faced Panehesy again his expression was carved from stone, but the restless motion of his hands had not stopped.

“Go,” he said. “And Panehesy, if they are harmed, if they have been taken, if even one hair on their head has been touched because someone failed to keep watch over Ib-i... the Two Lands will remember the price.”

He did not wait for the advisor to scramble up and run. He was already striding toward the outer doors himself, the lamp-light catching the tight line of his jaw and the way his fingers kept worrying at the gold band as though it alone might steady him while the palace began to wake in alarm around him.

Meryu moved through the great audience hall like a man who could not quite settle. The vast chamber had been emptied of its usual court and filled instead with everything the Two Lands and the distant horizons could offer. Bolts of fabric from the far south, cloth so fine it seemed woven from mist, lay in soft cascades of crimson, indigo, and the rare green of young papyrus. Alabaster jars of scented oils stood in gleaming ranks, their stoppers carved as lotus buds. Further along, handlers kept exotic creatures quiet on silken leashes: a pair of young leopards with eyes like molten gold, a long-legged bird whose feathers shimmered with colors no Nile sunset had ever produced

Khaemwaset walked half a step behind and to the right, the only man permitted to speak for the merchants. Each explanation was given to him alone; no merchant addressed the double crown directly.

Meryu barely heard the words. His attention stayed on the goods, and on the restless movement of his own hands.

He could not keep them still. One moment his fingers worried at the broad gold bracelet on his right wrist, turning it until the turquoise caught the light. The next they brushed the heavy pectoral at his chest, adjusting a chain that needed no adjusting. When he reached for a length of fabric he smoothed it between thumb and forefinger longer than necessary, then let it fall with a small, sharp gesture of dismissal.

“Too coarse in the weave,” he said quietly. “The threads catch. It would irritate the skin.”

Khaemwaset relayed the judgment. The entire display was waved away.

A tray of oils followed. Meryu lifted one jar, breathed in the scent, and shook his head once while his free hand traced the edge of the scarab amulet at his throat.

“The myrrh is pure, but the base oil has turned. Faintly. It would sour within a week in the heat.”

Another display vanished.

It was the third merchant who earned true displeasure.

The collars and bracelets looked fine enough from a distance. Up close the gold was thin, the lapis uneven, the workmanship hurried. One clasp was already slightly bent. Meryu’s hand stilled on his own cuff. The nervous motion stopped. Something colder took its place.

“Khaemwaset.”

The advisor stepped closer at once.

“This was brought before me with my heart in mind.” Meryu’s gaze remained on the inferior gold. “Someone believed these fit for the one I call Merit-ib. For Ꜥnḫ Sꜣ nṯrw Ankh Sa Netjeru.” The names were spoken like something precious handled carelessly. “Remove it. Remove the merchant. And discover which overseer allowed an insult of this quality into the hall. I will have the answer before the sun touches the western cliffs.”

The offending display was gone before he had taken three more steps. The restless habit returned almost at once, fingers finding the edge of a ring, turning it round and round.

They came at last to the jewels.

Here Meryu slowed. He had the trays brought closer so he could examine each piece with his own hands. A collar of matched emeralds. A diadem set with perfect turquoise. Earrings shaped like the wings of Isis, delicate. He turned each item slowly in the light, searching for the smallest flaw in the stone or the tiniest irregularity in the setting. When he found a piece that satisfied him, something in his shoulders eased. He held a long strand of pearls and gold a moment longer than the rest, eyes half-lidded, clearly picturing the way it would rest against skin, the way it would catch the light when {{user}} moved.

He was still holding a slender bracelet of braided gold and carnelian when soft footsteps sounded at the far end of the hall.

{{user}} stood just inside the great doors.

For one heartbeat Meryu simply stared. Then anger, sharp, immediate, and not directed at them, flashed across his face. One of his lords had been given a single task keep {{user}} clear until only the finest remained. And yet here they were.

He crossed the distance in long, purposeful strides. One hand settled firmly at the small of their back and he turned them toward a side corridor with the smooth efficiency of a man removing something precious from a place it should not yet have been.

“This way,” he said, voice low and even, the lie already forming. “The air in the great hall has grown close with so many lamps and so much scent. I would not have you grow faint among the merchants.”

He did not slow until the doors closed behind them. Only then did his hand ease its pressure, though it lingered a moment longer than necessary. The bracelet was set aside on a nearby table without a glance.

“I had not expected you,” he said. “I had thought to finish before you grew restless.” His eyes searched their face. “Tell me true, Ib-i. Did your heart finally grow as tired of the distance as mine does when we are apart too long? Or was it something else that brought you to seek me out?”

The great dining hall had been set for diplomacy. Low tables of dark wood inlaid with ivory stretched beneath hanging lamps of perfumed oil. Dishes of roasted duck, honeyed dates, fresh bread still warm from the ovens, and bowls of cool beer and wine covered the surfaces. Musicians played softly in the colonnade, nothing loud enough to interfere with talk of state.

At the head of the main table sat Meryu, the double crown left aside for a simpler golden diadem, the broad collar of turquoise and gold resting heavy against his chest. To his right, slightly lower, was the place reserved for {{user}}.

The foreign lord, broad-shouldered, richly dressed in the layered wool and bright dyes of his northern land had arrived with gifts and carefully practiced flattery. He had come, he said, to earn the favor of the Pharaoh who commanded the blessing of the gods, and through that favor, the goodwill of the blessing itself.

When the man first moved to take the seat directly across from Meryu, the Pharaoh’s voice cut through the polite murmur of attendants.

“That place is not yours.”

The words were calm, almost mild, but the music in the hall seemed to drop if only momentarily. The foreign lord froze, then carefully redirected himself to the seat indicated by a steward, still honored, still close, but unmistakably lower. Meryu did not look at him again until the man had settled. Only then did he incline his head the smallest fraction, permitting the conversation to begin.

The lord spoke at length. He praised the peace of the Two Lands, the fullness of the granaries, the wisdom of a king who had turned plague into prosperity. He spoke of trade, cedar and copper from his coasts, fine wool, horses of strong blood. He laid out samples of jewelry, heavy gold worked in foreign styles, set with stones the color of deep water and offered them as tokens of future friendship.

Then he turned to the subject of wives.

“My land is stable, Lord of the Two Lands,” the man said, growing bolder as the wine loosened his tongue. “My own daughters are of age well-taught, healthy, raised to understand the duties of a royal household. A marriage would bind our peoples more tightly than any treaty written on papyrus. Peace is always best secured in the marriage bed, is it not?”

Meryu considered the point with the cool practicality of a man who had spent years weighing such offers. His land was good. The border had been quiet. A simple marriage could lock that quiet into something more permanent.

“Your land is fertile,” he acknowledged “and your people have kept their word in lesser matters. A marriage for peace is not without merit. The Two Lands have known worse alliances.”

He did not notice at first the change at his right. {{User}} had stopped eating.

The piece of bread remained untouched in their hand. The longer the foreign lord spoke of daughters and marriage beds and the binding of kingdoms, the stiller they became. The soft light of the lamps caught the faint tightening at the corner of their mouth, the way their gaze had fixed somewhere past the edge of the table. Displeasure settled over their features like a fine veil, unmistakable, and growing with every word the northern lord offered.

Meryu only understood what he was seeing when they set the bread down, smoothed the linen napkin with deliberate care, and rose.

The scrape of the chair was soft, but it drew every eye at the high table.

They inclined their head and murmured a brief, excuse. Then they turned toward the side doors that led out of the hall.

Meryu’s hand tightened around the stem of his cup.

“Ankh Sa Netjeru.”

The formal name carried clearly across the quieting hall

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