Lion Head Mesa eightieth

unsure whether or not he was frustrated or relieved not to be traveling again, senmut dipped his head to hide the shock and consternation which threatened to take away his composure.

it occured to him that rashepses was stormy-browed for he had reason to be so. each day that their pharaoh did not enter her season might call his ability as her Consort into question, as if the riverprince held the reins of such a gate.

but still; the angst of a royal womb as of yet not flowering with heirs was a specific pressure which no else might ever bear.

nazli, nazli, nazli! did pharaoh know?

his heart raced.

"the serpent rises," senmut said of the mighty waterbody which fed the green land around akashingo and slithered down toward muat-riya. "if it does not rise, we will not eat. a festival should celebrate the serpent as well as the god Min."

"for a length of four days only fish should be eaten, with the roe dedicated to Min and kept solely for the tongues of pharaoh and Consort. on the fourth day, the High Priest acts as Min and the High Priestess as Iset. there is a prayer to be said, a dance to be performed. together they break a bundle of the gods'-herb," a common enough plant known as prickly lettuce. when snapped or peeled, the stems gave off a lewd, oozing white liquid, senmut explained, attempting to keep his features stilled. this moisture might be caught, collected, and applied to the belly of the divine Ruler, should she wish.

"the entire rite is carried out before the royal ones and their assemblage. when the song and dance reach their conclusion, the priest and priestess ah, find their own, great one," senmut said lightly. "there are others: the great sacrifices to the serpent itself, the running of the priest to bless one end of the river and then the other, the ablutions of pharaoh and Consort in the water themselves."

but he was quiet now, still surprised by the request made for his knowledge.