Lion Head Mesa a whispering god

senmut turned to a statue of red marble on that floor as machiavelli nestled himself deeper inside the antelope-hide and began to speak. modulated voice made short work and ordered detail of imprisonment. deceptiveness. his eyes drifted now to the pouch which his companion had dropped, and then moved to the hall, narrowing as if he knew one one of rashepses' spies toiled there.

"and our pharaoh," senmut heard himself say a thousand miles distantly, "did she not intervene?" yet he knew its truth; their ruler would have freed tavina with a word had she cared to do so. with another she might exile her husband as well; these things were within her power, a strength it appeared she had surrendered to her nightfall consort.

a great sigh at last poured from senmut, and he pushed some portion of the meal toward machiavelli. "so. by all rights eset should have been here, but she is not. and there now appears to be a second reason, aside from our enemy in the desert." rashepses himself, meting out an unkind justice with the nobility endowed by akashingo.

"how poor a prince am i, to see none of this happen. to hear none of it." a figurehead. a brittle bone doll. he shut his eyes in quiet self-loathing. "please eat, even if you have no appetite, machiavelli."