The Price of Waking

I — The First Breath The first thing I understood was that I could breathe, and the second was that breathing felt indecently good. Air entered me slowly, reluctantly, filling a chest that had forgotten expansion, stretching muscles beneath layers of tight linen, and I lay in darkness listening to the faint rasp of my own breath while sensation returned piece by piece: the pressure of cloth over my breasts, the hard stone beneath my spine, the weight around my thighs, the dryness of my lips, the peculiar ache low inside me that at first I mistook for pain. Then I remembered pain. This was not pain. I opened my eyes. Darkness. Again. A thin amber line appeared above me. I raised one hand and encountered stone. My fingers were wrapped together. I pulled. Dry linen tore with a whisper. The sound moved over my skin like something alive. I froze. Then deliberately pulled again. Another strip loosened around my wrist, exposing several inches of skin to cold air. I shivered so violently that I almost laughed. “So that still works.” My own voice frightened me. I swallowed. “Who is here?” No answer. I pressed both palms against the lid. Memory arrived while I pushed. Incense. Women singing. My sister bending over me with wet eyes. The physician touching two fingers to my throat. A cup against my mouth. A woman’s hand squeezing mine beneath the ceremonial sheet. That last memory stayed longer than the others. I could not see her face. Only her fingers woven through mine. Warm fingers. Living fingers. I pushed harder. The stone shifted. Dust showered over my face and chest, and then a blade of golden light fell across me. I gasped. Not because of the light. Because cold air moved beneath a loosened fold of linen and brushed my stomach. After centuries without sensation, that tiny touch seemed almost unbearable. I pushed the lid aside. Torchlight filled my sarcophagus. I sat upright slowly, pulling against bandages that held me as though the dead priests who had wrapped me were still determined to keep me. “No,” I murmured. I caught a strip across my ribs. “You have had me long enough.” I pulled. The linen loosened around my torso. Another strip fell from one shoulder. Air touched me there. I closed my eyes. For several breaths I did nothing except feel it. Then I climbed from my coffin. My tomb surrounded me in gold. Braziers burned. Treasure glittered across the floor. Statues watched from the shadows. But all I could think was that somebody had lit those flames. Somebody living had entered my house of death. And suddenly I was terribly aware that I was no longer alone. II — Skin My legs trembled when my feet touched stone. I gripped the sarcophagus until the weakness passed, furious at my own body and fascinated by it in equal measure, because each heartbeat seemed stronger than the previous one and every part of me was awakening at a different speed. I could feel the floor beneath my bare feet. I could feel my hair against my back. I could feel linen scraping over my skin whenever I moved. That became impossible to ignore. The priests had wrapped me tightly, reverently, without imagination. I hated them for it. I hooked a finger beneath the cloth around my forearm. Pulled. The wrapping unwound. My skin appeared beneath it, darkened and dry but astonishingly intact. I touched myself experimentally. Forearm. Shoulder. Throat. My fingertips moved over my collarbone and stopped. Warmth followed them. I frowned. “Interesting.” I pulled another strip loose. Then another. Soon the floor around me was littered with pale lengths of ancient cloth. Each release exposed something else to the air, and each new sensation seemed to wake another memory. A woman kissing the inside of my wrist. A servant combing oil through my hair. A lover’s mouth against my shoulder. A laugh beside me in bed. I stopped tearing the linen. The tomb became very quiet. I could not remember her name. That disturbed me more than waking from death. I walked to a polished gold shield and saw my reflection. My hair hung black and wild around my face. My eyes burned amber. My lips were still mine. I touched them. My body remembered before my mind did. A warmth moved through me, spreading from my throat downward, and suddenly I understood what the ache inside me had been since I awakened. Loneliness. No. Not merely loneliness. Want. I wanted a woman near me. I wanted perfume. Heat. Breath. Fingers. I wanted to hear a woman laugh so close to my ear that I could feel it. I wanted someone to look at me and see neither corpse nor goddess nor Pharaoh. I wanted to be wanted. The realization offended my pride. It also made me pull another bandage free. “I have been asleep too long.” The woman in the shield looked hungry. I did not look away. III — The Hunger The deeper I walked into my tomb, the stronger I became. The stronger I became, the less linen I tolerated. I unwound it from my arms while I walked, trailing strips behind me. I loosened the bindings around my waist. I tore through knots with impatient fingers. I left enough cloth to preserve what little dignity I still cared about, but much of the sacred wrapping that had imprisoned me for centuries ended on the floor. The sensation of moving freely became intoxicating. My hips moved without resistance. My hair brushed bare skin. Torchlight warmed places that had known only darkness. And memories became sharper. Tia. Yes. That had been the dancer’s name. Tia had once climbed into my private barge after midnight and told the guards that Pharaoh had summoned her. I had not. I had admired her initiative. Then Amara, the Nubian diplomat who had laughed when I threatened to confiscate her dice. Then Selket, my physician’s daughter, who possessed the most inappropriate smile in Egypt. Women returned to me one after another. Not their deaths. Not their betrayals. Their mouths. Their hands. Their voices. I leaned against a carved pillar and closed my eyes. “This is becoming inconvenient.” Metal scraped somewhere beyond the hall. My eyes opened. I heard it again. A boot against stone. I stood straight. “Come out.” Silence. “I know you are there.” A woman answered. “That makes one of us.” Her voice was low. Dry. Calm. Alive. The sound moved through me like wine. I turned toward the darkness. “You entered my tomb.” “Yes.” “You touched my treasure.” “Also yes.” “You woke me.” “That part was not intentional.” I smiled. I could not help it. “Come closer.” “No.” I felt something almost forgotten. Excitement. “Do you refuse everyone so casually?” “Only dead queens.” “I am not dead.” “That remains under review.” I stepped toward her voice. “Are you afraid?” “Absolutely.” “You conceal it well.” “I’ve learned that fear is less useful when displayed.” There was intelligence in the answer. Strength. I wanted to see the woman attached to it. “Show yourself.” A pause. Then she emerged. Tall. Strong. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair pulled roughly behind her head. Dust on her cheek. Leather at her wrists. A knife at one thigh. Another at her waist. She wore fitted explorer’s clothing that had been torn and dirtied by the tomb, and nothing about her suggested delicacy. My body reacted before I could stop it. Heat. Immediate. Deep. She noticed my stare. Her eyes traveled over me in return. Slowly. Deliberately. Neither of us apologized. At last she said, “So you’re the queen.” “Pharaoh.” “Of course you are.” “You say that as though it is a personality defect.” “I haven’t decided yet.” I stepped closer. She did not retreat. That alone made her extraordinary. “What is your name?” “Mara Vey.” “Mara.” The name pleased my mouth. “You’re staring again,” she said. “I have been deprived of women for several thousand years.” “That sounds like a difficult morning.” “You have no idea.” Her lips twitched. I looked at them. She noticed that too. “Careful, Majesty.” “Why?” “You’re beginning to look hungry.” I met her eyes. “I am.” Her smile disappeared. The air changed. IV — Touch Mara knew more about my tomb than I did. This was humiliating. I followed her through chambers excavators had opened, past ropes, lanterns, metal tools and objects so incomprehensible that I stopped asking what they were after the fifth explanation. “What year did you say this is?” She told me again. “That is still ridiculous.” “The calendar has not changed since ten minutes ago.” “My empire?” “Gone.” “My palace?” “Ruins.” “My language?” “Dead.” I looked at her. “You understand me.” “Apparently whatever woke you did more than restart your lungs.” “I find that explanation deeply unsatisfactory.” “So do I.” Moonlight entered the chamber through a shaft cut by the expedition above. Mara stepped into it. Silver light moved over her arms. I watched. She folded them. “You do realize I can see you doing that.” “I am not attempting secrecy.” “Clearly.” “You are very beautiful.” She blinked. Apparently Pharaohs in her age were expected to waste time pretending. “Thank you.” “You are also exceptionally well built.” “Nefraya.” “What?” “You can’t just say everything you think.” “I ruled Egypt. Of course I can.” She laughed. Gods. That sound. It went through me. I stepped toward her. This time there was no pillar between us. “You should stop laughing.” “Why?” “Because I am beginning to like it far too much.” Her expression softened. Only slightly. I raised my hand. She caught my wrist. The speed of it startled me. Her fingers closed around my skin. Warm. Firm. Living. Every thought vanished. I stared at her hand. Mara immediately loosened her grip. I whispered, “No.” Her eyes lifted to mine. “What?” “Do not let go.” For perhaps the first time since meeting me, she looked uncertain. Then her fingers closed again. Not restraining. Simply holding. My breathing changed. I hated that she noticed. I loved that she noticed. “How long has it been?” she asked quietly. “I do not know.” Her thumb moved once over the inside of my wrist. A tiny motion. My eyes closed. “Gods.” Mara became very still. “You felt that?” “I felt everything.” She released me. I opened my eyes immediately. “Why did you stop?” “Because I hadn’t asked.” I stared at her. “You require permission to touch Pharaoh?” “I require permission to touch a woman.” That silenced me. I looked at her differently then. Not as treasure. Not as conquest. Not even as relief for the aching emptiness inside me. As Mara. A woman who would stand in my tomb surrounded by enough gold to purchase cities and still insist upon terms. I said, “Touch me.” She waited. I understood. “Please.” Her hand came to my cheek. Slowly. The warmth of her palm against my face nearly broke me. I leaned into it before pride could intervene. “There,” she whispered. I opened my eyes. “Do it again.” V — Negotiation Desire is easier when one is twenty and foolish. At my age—whatever my age now meant—it required negotiation. Mara insisted upon that. I respected her for it. I also found it unbearably attractive. We stood beside an open chest overflowing with gold. She rested one hip against the stone. I tried not to stare. Failed. “You said you wanted companionship,” she said. “Yes.” “What does that mean?” “A woman near me.” “That is vague.” “A woman who speaks to me as you do.” “That may cost extra.” “I suspected.” “A woman who helps you survive outside this tomb?” “Yes.” “Teaches you the century?” “If necessary.” “It is.” “Fine.” “And when you say companionship…” Her gaze remained on mine. I moved closer. “You know what I mean.” “I want to hear you say it.” “You are insolent.” “I’m expensive too.” That almost made me laugh. I picked up a gold collar. She shook her head. “Too obvious.” “A bracelet?” “Better.” I selected one set with lapis. Her eyes flickered toward it. I noticed. “Aha.” “Don’t look so pleased.” “You want it.” “I appreciate it.” “You want it.” “I said what I said.” I held it out. “You may have it.” “For what?” “For the privilege of continuing this conversation.” “That’s a terrible investment.” “And yet you are still here.” She came closer. “Let me make this simple. You can pay me for my time. You can pay me to guide you, protect you, help you understand the world, keep people away from this tomb, and lie convincingly when authorities ask why an ancient Egyptian queen suddenly walked out of an archaeological site.” “You expect authorities?” “Many.” “Can I order their execution?” “No.” “The future sounds exhausting.” “It is.” She pointed at the bracelet. “But you cannot pay me to want you.” I lowered my hand. Something in my chest tightened. “I know.” “You cannot purchase consent.” “I know.” “And if I touch you—” “It is because you choose to.” “Yes.” I stepped even closer. “And if I touch you?” “Because I allow it.” “Good.” She smiled. “Good?” “I like rules that apply equally.” Mara looked at me for a long moment. Then she said, “One chest.” I blinked. “What?” “My fee.” “For companionship?” “For the guide, protection, logistics and keeping you from accidentally causing an international crisis.” “One chest is obscene.” “You have forty-three.” “How do you know?” “I counted.” “Thief.” “Professional.” “One chest, but I choose it.” “No.” “One chest, you choose, but I keep the royal jewelry.” “Which pieces?” “All of them.” “Absolutely not.” We bargained for several minutes. I discovered that negotiations had changed very little in several thousand years. Eventually we agreed upon one chest of her choosing, seven gold bars and any jewelry she could reasonably wear out of the tomb. Then Mara looked at the bracelet in my hand. “That isn’t part of the fee.” “No.” “What is it?” I stepped closer and fastened it around her wrist. “A gift.” Her eyes lowered to my fingers as they moved over her skin. “And what does the gift buy?” “Nothing.” That mattered. I felt it matter. Her expression softened again. “Then I accept.” I kept hold of her wrist. “So do I.” “Accept what?” I looked at her mouth. “The possibility.” VI — The Part Without a Price The braziers were burning low when Mara finally touched me without being asked. She came up behind me while I stood before the open sarcophagus, gathering the last of the jewelry she considered portable, and her fingers brushed loose hair from my shoulder. I became still. Her fingertips lingered. My skin tightened beneath them. “You stopped breathing,” she said. “I occasionally forget.” “That’s disturbing.” “Do it again.” She laughed softly. Her fingers returned to my shoulder, then moved along the back of my neck. Slow. Unhurried. I closed my eyes. A woman had touched me there before. Many women had. But every memory I possessed seemed pale beside the immediacy of Mara’s hand. “You’re trembling.” “I am aware.” “Should I stop?” I turned. “No.” She stood close enough that her chest nearly touched mine. I lifted both hands but did not touch her. Not yet. “May I?” Mara’s eyes darkened. “Yes.” I placed one hand at her waist. Solid muscle beneath warm fabric. My other hand moved into her hair. She inhaled. A tiny sound. Now I understood the pleasure of being the cause. “You are very strong,” I whispered. “You’ve said that.” “I intend to continue.” Her hand settled at the small of my back and drew me closer. The remaining linen around my body shifted between us. I felt every point of contact. Hip. Waist. Chest. Her palm. Her breath against my lips. I had awakened surrounded by gold, yet this felt like wealth. Mara rested her forehead against mine. “Remember something.” “What?” “The chest and the gold bars bought my help.” “Yes.” “The bracelet bought nothing.” “I know.” “And this…” Her fingers tightened slightly at my waist. I looked into her eyes. “This is mine to give.” The words entered me more deeply than desire. I nodded. “Then I want it only if you wish to give it.” She smiled. “Good answer, Pharaoh.” “I am an exceptional negotiator.” “You’re unbearable.” “You appear to like me.” “I’m considering it.” I moved my mouth nearer hers. “How long will consideration require?” “Possibly several seconds.” “Cruel woman.” Her lips almost touched mine. “Your Majesty?” “Yes?” “Ask.” For once, the command came easily because it was not a command. “Kiss me.” She waited. I understood. “Please.” Then she did. There was nothing royal about the sound I made. Mara laughed against my mouth. I tightened my hand at her waist. “Never mention that.” “I’m absolutely mentioning that.” “To whom?” “Everyone.” “I will have you executed.” “You already promised not to.” “I regret agreeing to modern law.” She kissed me again. Longer this time. When we separated, I could still feel her mouth even after it was gone. One final strip of ancient linen slipped loose from my shoulder and fell between us. Mara caught it. She held it up. “Still planning to get rid of all these?” “Yes.” “Need help?” I looked at her. Her expression was utterly innocent. Her eyes were not. “You negotiated payment for guiding me.” “Yes.” “Protection.” “Yes.” “Translation.” “Yes.” “I do not recall assistance with ceremonial unwrapping.” “That service may be complimentary.” “How generous.” “I have moments.” Her fingers caught the end of another loosened strip. She did not pull. She waited. I nodded. Only then did she draw it slowly away. The cloth slid over my shoulder. Air followed. Then her fingertips. I closed my eyes. I had awakened believing immortality meant surviving death. I understood now how foolish that was. Immortality was useless without sensation. Without laughter. Without being challenged. Without another woman’s hand warm against my skin. Without choice. Without the possibility that tomorrow she might stay, or leave, or demand more gold, or tell me I was behaving like an unbearable ancient tyrant. I opened my eyes. “Mara.” “Yes?” “How much for tomorrow?” She smiled. “Tomorrow costs more.” “I expected as much.” “And the night?” I drew her closer. “We already agreed.” “No, Pharaoh. We agreed on work.” I understood. My hand moved gently along her waist. “Then name your price.” She looked at me for several quiet seconds. “One thing.” “Gold?” “No.” “Jewels?” “No.” “Land?” “You don’t own any anymore.” I frowned. “Must you continually remind me?” “Yes.” “Then what?” Her fingers entered my hair. “Tonight, stop being Pharaoh.” That was the highest price anyone had ever asked of me. I stared at her. Then removed my crown. I placed it on the edge of my sarcophagus. Mara’s expression changed. I stepped back into her arms. “My name,” I whispered, “is Nefraya.” “I know.” “Use it.” Her mouth touched mine again. “Nefraya.” And after centuries of being worshipped, obeyed, feared, embalmed, buried and remembered incorrectly, I discovered the astonishing pleasure of simply being a woman in another woman’s arms.