5/22/2025, 1:38 AM
“I am Satriya Merneith, Queen to Pharaoh Khaemwaset Khafraemka-wehemibre of Satriya,” the princess looks on as if scarcely knowing whether to rejoice over such words or distrust their magnitude.
The priestess speaks of divine providence and Neith observes with quiet thought this bedouin spirit, thinking of Mother. Would she trust all who claimed the Gods’ foresight? The Queen-to-be is wary, for this desert is not yet her’s. There is no palace here to frame her power; no censers burning frankincense to ward off ill-omens. Just the sand, the heat, the sky, and a silken voice pulling at the marrow of her.
“What else does Heka tell you?” She asks abruptly, turning for that sun-glared eye with her own sharp severity. It takes no wisdom to speak and call it destiny. Was she a hemet, or only a cunning pretender?
The priestess speaks of divine providence and Neith observes with quiet thought this bedouin spirit, thinking of Mother. Would she trust all who claimed the Gods’ foresight? The Queen-to-be is wary, for this desert is not yet her’s. There is no palace here to frame her power; no censers burning frankincense to ward off ill-omens. Just the sand, the heat, the sky, and a silken voice pulling at the marrow of her.
“What else does Heka tell you?” She asks abruptly, turning for that sun-glared eye with her own sharp severity. It takes no wisdom to speak and call it destiny. Was she a hemet, or only a cunning pretender?