lips. Even so, I knew what he wanted. His eyes pleaded with me, begged me for help. Our teacher needed a miracle. You asked me why I blame myself?” Asten said fervently. “It was my fault he was out there. I was the one who wanted the ibex. I was the one who stirred the blood of the jackals. Not Amon. Not Ahmose. Me.
“After looking into his piteous eyes, I made a decision. Taking hold of his shoulder, I whispered, ‘I’m sorry,’ then placed my hand on his forehead, took my knife, and sliced his throat. What remained of his lifeblood poured over my hands.” Asten lifted his hands and stared at them, tears filling his eyes. Touching his shaking fingers to his trembling lips, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if he was trying to set aside the horror that haunted him.
“It didn’t take long for him to die,” he said when he regained control over his voice. “After that, I took my prize, hid the horns in the underbrush, and returned to my brothers. The next morning when we heard the report that our teacher was missing, all I could feel was the fear of being caught, the shame of knowing I was to blame. They’d find his body and see the cut on his neck and know it was made by man. They’d hunt for his murderer.”
Asten’s voice shook with emotion. “When they did locate him, the animals had desecrated his body enough that no one was the wiser.” His body heaved with a powerful inhale and then he let out the mighty breath in a half sob, half laugh. “And do you want to know what I felt? I felt relief!” he cried, his expression one of outraged self-loathing.
Tears trickled down my cheeks as I imagined the young man Asten had been. My heart broke for him.
He went on shaking his head. “The sorrow over the loss of our teacher wasn’t as important to me as not being caught. It’s true. Guilt consumed me, but I was safe. I’d kept my secret. When I went to see the sorceress and told her what had happened, the woman cackled in glee and said the blood of the innocent that stained the horns would make her spell even more powerful.”
“And did you give your mother the potion?” Ma’at asked.
“I did.” Asten swiped his hands over his eyes, his palms digging into the sockets. “It was the only thing I could give her. I owed her that much.”
“I sense there is more to that answer that pertains to another question,” Ma’at said.
“There is,” Asten confessed. “I’ve memorized your questions, Ma’at. The two remaining are ‘Have I ever taken that which did not belong to me?’ and ‘Have I ever committed perjury, hidden the truth, or deceived another?’ The answer to both questions is yes.”
If Ma’at was impressed, she didn’t show it but waited patiently for Asten to explain.
“When I was ten years of age, the old nursemaid who had taken care of me as a baby was on her deathbed. As was my duty, I went to visit her. When I came to her bedside, she dismissed all of the servants and told me her little secret. She said that when she was called upon to care for the queen’s young baby, the prince had been very ill.
“One morning she rose to check the cradle of the young prince and found him dead. She panicked and prayed to the gods to bring back the life of the little one, but it didn’t work. Disguised, she wrapped the babe in a cloth and tossed his little body to the crocodiles, then met with a servant woman who had a son the same age and offered her pilfered riches from the king’s coffers in exchange for her baby. She did this in order to save her own life, which would have been in jeopardy had it become known that the royal prince had perished under her care. The serving woman agreed.
“I am that child.
“My old nursemaid died soon after, taking her terrible secret to the grave. Once I knew the truth, it tormented me. Over the years I became paranoid. Every servant who looked my way, every merchant who studied my face too long, was banished from my presence. Once, a self-proclaimed uncle appeared, demanding money in return for his silence. He claimed he knew who my real mother was. I threw him in prison. After starving