Page 209 of Tomb of the Sun King

Ellie had largely remained quiet during Constance’s account of their recent adventures, except when she had piped in to offer her personal theories about the impact of the Pharaoh Neferneferuaten on the development of the Abrahamic religions. Padma had cut that off just when Ellie was getting rolling.

The kumari was paying very close attention to her now, which left Ellie feeling like a butterfly pinned to a museum display board. She stiffened, refusing to be intimidated.

“Marriage is not always to a woman’s benefit,” she observed stoutly. “In fact, I should say that as an institution, it is currently so broken that I wonder why any woman would willingly enter into it, regardless of the quality of the gentleman involved!”

Ellie’s outburst came out a mite higher in volume than she had strictly intended—only so that it might be heard over the happy ululations of the Bedouin ladies trilling out the zagharit, of course.

Zeinab’s head turned from within the dancers, her green eyes locking thoughtfully onto Ellie before she was carried past by the current of celebrating ladies.

Beside Ellie, Constance’s face flashed with quick sympathy.

Padma’s gaze was harder to read. “I would not permit my granddaughter to marry a bounder, Miss Mallory,” she declared in a voice both as firm as stone and unimpeachably regal.

Jemmahor bounced over, her cheeks flushed pink. Her hair curled with a touch of well-earned perspiration at her forehead, where her hijab had fallen back a little.

“Come on, you two!” she ordered happily, holding out her hands. “You can’t possibly sit and gossip through the whole party like a pair of aunties!”

Constance shot a nervous look at her grandmother, but Padma only gave them a little wave, apparently dismissing them—at least for now.

Jemmahor grasped Ellie and Constance’s hands, hauling them up into the bouncing, shimmying mass of dancers, who let out a trill of delight at the new additions to their celebration.

?

An hour later, Ellie was herded out into the shadowy dusk to watch the men perform the Ardah. The Bedouin ladies had donned their abayas, many of which were richly decorated with silver sequins and elegant fringe. Their eyes were laughing and happy over their veils.

The gentlemen lined up outside their tent, their own wedding finery illuminated by a blaze of torches and lanterns. Each of them held some sort of weapon—mostly swords, though Ellie also spotted a few rifles.

The drum began to beat, the bass of it pulsing with the thrum of her heart as she watched from among the row of seated women. She had been separated from Constance and Padma in the rush outside but spotted them a little further down the line.

Constance was watching Ellie’s brother.

The Bedouin had co-opted their guests into the display. Neil held a sword—but not the distinct twist-welded iron of his legendary blade. Ellie supposed that was for the best, as it might have an unanticipated effect on the party if it were to suddenly burst into flames. Neil held his borrowed weapon out in front of him as though afraid he was going to slice himself with it. An older gentleman beside him took pity and helped him adjust his grip.

His sword now somewhat more properly positioned, Neil’s gaze rose—rather unerringly, Ellie thought—to where Constance sat among the women.

Adam stepped into place in the line, and Ellie’s eyes found him just as unerringly.

He had taken out his machete. The men around him were laughing, clearly making jokes about its relatively smaller size. Someone handed him a shamshir, the curved blade gleaming in the light of the rising moon.

Another of the sheikh’s remarkably attractive relations started to sing, calling out lines of poetry as the drum beat rose.

The men began to move, their swords rising and flashing as they swept out and down. The blades twisted in their hands as the song rose into the evening sky, echoing softly off the unchanging stones that framed the camp.

Zeinab dropped beside Ellie without waiting for an invitation. The light fabric of her abaya pooled on the carpet that had been set out for them. Her eyes settled on the men.

Sayyid clearly knew the dance, joining it with a smile on his face. He fit in very well, despite being a city scholar among a band of herders and warriors. One would never guess that earlier that morning, he had wielded the power of a prophet to bury a revolutionary secret beneath the sand.

Ellie wondered if he even realized how much of a hero he was.

Neil was obviously struggling to keep up, nearly fumbling his sword, but he kept at it with a slightly desperate determination. The sight warmed her heart, even as her feelings for her hapless, scholarly brother remained a bit complicated. He had done someveryfoolish things over the last few days—and some very brave ones as well.

Ellie found herself wondering whether perhaps the complications went back even further… whether maybe she had been more hurt by Neil in the past than she had allowed herself to recognize.

But to be hurt, one had to care. And over all that had happened since she arrived in Egypt, Ellie had been reminded that she cared about Neil a very great deal. That it would be worth muddling through what had gone wrong between them instead of pretending that none of it really mattered.

Her gaze shifted down the line to where Adam wielded his borrowed sword with easy instinct, the blade flashing in his hand as though he had been born to it. A lop-sided grin brightened his unshaven face.

Something wrenched painfully in Ellie’s chest at the sight.

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