Lion Head Mesa yesterday i woke up sucking a lemon

for a time, khaemwaset did not speak. he led the fellow up the trio of natural rough-hewn steps, through the open-air throne room with its standing seat of languid crimson rock, and into the passageway beyond. "we have no common names between us," the prince said at last, glancing toward his tired charge with an appraising look.

ostrega had once been the name of a king. now only this exhausted nobleman wore the title. khaemwaset knew the world existed beyond akashingo. muat-riya. the desert. the war, which by now seemed so distant from him that it might as well be another realm.

but this man was real. he had come from somewhere beyond, and he wished to command the stories from athamas before sleep. "you may call me khaemwaset only, if you would like. or — Divine One," he smoothly suggested, plucking the favorite of his mother's titles from his lexicon.

down the halls, into the networking of red chasm moved with movement of those who served. "bring a meal," khaemwaset ordered of no one in particular. "we will take it in the priest's chambers."

the wellspring for now was cold, shrouded only in the tiniest lingering scent of the flowers that bloomed in shafts of light along polished walls. he led athamas away from this pool and up to a small, neatly appointed series of rooms that were otherwise austere, free of decor or pomp.

"senmut will join us when we are finished. he is our hereditary prince. that means my mother made him who he is, but he was only a servant before." on the floor, thrown plush skins over fragrant reeds, servants bringing goat's-eyes and pheasant heads, rabbit haunches, and even a taste of rare and coveted honey. "he has no claim to the throne except if there is no heir. and i am he." laughter as he reclined.

"eat, athamas," khaemwaset insisted. "i want to know more about your mother's mother."