Nefertiti

“He has to go to Kiya,” I replied. “He has to have sons.”

She spun around. “And you think I can’t give him one?”

I stepped closer so that we were both looking down over the city. “If you don’t, would he stop loving you?”

“He adores me,” she said heatedly. “Who cares that Kiya is pregnant? He’s only going tonight because it’s Panahesi who called him. He thinks Panahesi is loyal.” She stiffened. “So while Father slaves away procuring ships and avoiding war, Panahesi whispers into Akhenaten’s ear, and it’s as if Aten himself has spoken. And his influence is growing.”

“Not above Father’s?”

“Never above Father’s. I make sure of that.” She looked down at the people who couldn’t see her. They moved across the city carrying baskets of harvested grain on roads that twisted like white ribbons. “Only Hatshepsut ever had such influence as I have. And Kiya is not a queen. She could have five sons and never be queen.” The rage returned to Nefertiti’s eyes. “I should attend,” she said viciously. “I should attend this feast and ruin it for her.” And I could see by the look on her face that she meant it.

There was a noise behind us and Father entered the antechamber. “Come, Nefertiti.” He drew my sister away from the Window of Appearances and they conversed in low tones. While they spoke, I passed my fingers over the paintings that decorated the walls of the palace. I wondered what Nakhtmin would think if he could see the gold from the temples staring back at him in gilded images of my family, myself in some of them, all faces that Thutmose had drawn from memory.

I studied one of the engravings, an image of my father receiving golden necklaces from Pharaoh. It was symbolic, of course, since my father had never received such gifts and would have only needed to raise his hand to command them. But in the scene, Nefertiti had her arm around his waist, her other arm resting on Akhenaten’s shoulders. The two princesses were there, and someone had begun painting a third child held in a nurse’s arms. Tiye and I stood off in the distance. Our arms were not raised to Aten the way everyone else’s were. We were dressed in open kilts, and the sculptor, Thutmose, had emphasized the green color of my eyes. We were everywhere, my family, and only the absence of Panahesi and Kiya was conspicuous in Amarna. If the Northern Palace ever fell, their tombs would be the only testament to their existence.

“Are you coming?” Nefertiti demanded.

I looked around. “Where’s Father?”

Nefertiti shrugged slyly. “On business.”

Her smug silence warned me. “What’s happening?” I asked her. “What’s going on?”

“We’re going to the feast,” she said simply.

“Nefertiti—”

“Why not?” she exclaimed.

“Because it’s cruel.”

“Power is cruel,” she retorted, “and it will either be mine or hers.”

My sister watched herself in the mirror. “I want to be as beautiful as Isis tonight. Unearthly beautiful.”

She stood, and the netted dress she was wearing arched over her breasts and fell down her back. The silver on her lashes and across her thighs caught the torchlight. She had replaced her crown with silver beads in her hair that moved when she did. I almost felt sorry for Kiya. But Kiya was just as cunning as my sister, and if Nefertiti never gave Akhenaten a prince, our family would bow to Kiya when her son took the throne. It was this that made me sit and endure the painful plucking and careful painting of my cheeks and lips. The thought of our family serving a man like Panahesi…I shook my beaded head. It must never be.

In the open courtyard, Nefertiti’s ladies were waiting, talking and giggling like girls. We walked between them, and I had the impression that we were silver rain droplets in a field of lotus blossoms. The ladies parted, and I realized that they were all girls I didn’t know, the daughters of scribes and Aten priests whose job was to keep my sister entertained. From the stables, a throng of guards had appeared. A lieutenant took Nefertiti’s hand and helped her up into her chariot. She took the whip from him.

“You’re going to drive?” I exclaimed.

“Of course. To the Northern Palace!” she cried.

Nefertiti flicked the whip and the chariot lurched forward toward the white beacon in the night. The guards scrambled to chase after her, and I could hear the wild laughter of the women racing in their chariots from behind.

“Not so fast,” I shouted, petrified of turning over, but the wind drowned out my words as the chariot sped north. “We will die, Nefertiti!”

My sister turned to me in triumph. “What?”

As the chariot reached the palace gates, she tugged on the reins and the horses dropped back. I was stunned at the majesty of Kiya’s palace. Its delicate reflection wavered on the Nile, a white bastion constructed out of love and dedication. Every column had been carved into a lotus blossom, springing upward as if to embrace Aten. From the wide opening of the palace’s pillared front, I could see into its courtyards and torchlit gardens. Kiya’s guards assembled themselves in a frenzied panic when they saw who we were, falling over one another to lead the way and bow before us.

“Your Majesty, we didn’t know you were coming.”

“Announce our arrival,” Nefertiti commanded.

The servants in gold kilts rushed toward the hall as we made our slow and purposeful progression between the oil lamps that lined the limestone stairs. Guests bowed down before us, whispering to each other. When we reached the Great Hall, the trumpeters reassembled.

“Queen Nefertiti and the Lady Mutnodjmet,” the herald declared.

We swept inside and the Great Hall burst into chatter. Nefertiti’s ladies followed us closely; they fanned out, finding food and seating appropriate for a queen. The silver of our necklaces and bangles caught the light, and I knew that we were more beautiful than anyone there, even the proud and pretty daughters of the palace viziers and scribes. Kiya turned sharply, talking quickly to her husband to draw his eyes away, but his gaze was fixed on my sister, a silver fish flashing in an illuminated pond.

“Take me to the table of honor,” Nefertiti said, and we were taken across the hall to the table where Akhenaten and the pregnant Kiya were sitting. Nefertiti sat down at the opposite end. Between us sat all of Kiya’s closest ladies. I knew I could never have the courage to do what Nefertiti had just done: sweep into a lion’s den like the head of the pride.

Panahesi, on the right side of Akhenaten, grew red with fury. At Kiya’s own feast, Nefertiti called for music, and everyone laughed and sang and drank. Kiya was caught; at any other time, all of her ladies would have snubbed my sister. But now, in the Northern Palace, none of them dared to snub Nefertiti in Akhenaten’s presence, so they were fawning and kind, telling her stories, exchanging gossip, and as the wine-fueled laughter heightened, so did Kiya’s rage.

“What is it?” Akhenaten said, worried.

Kiya glared back at him from under her lashes. “This is my feast, not hers!”

Akhenaten looked around to be sure Nefertiti wasn’t near him, then promised, “I will make it up to you.”

“How?” she cried shrilly.

Akhenaten tore his gaze away from my sister, who threw back her head and laughed at one of Thutmose’s jokes. “I will have Thutmose sculpt you,” I heard him say.

“And if we have another son,” Kiya pressed her advantage, “will Nebnefer finally be declared your heir?”

I leaned closer to hear how he would respond.

“That is up to Aten.”

I thought triumphantly, To Aten and our family.

When the feast was over, I could see the strain of what Nefertiti had done in her eyes. Her voice brooked no