There was a dark shape to his left. He saw it just as he picked up the machete and watched the caked mud fall off the blade.

Slowly he raised his eyes to see the figure of one of the twins staring at him—one, but which one?

He was petrified, holding the machete in his hand. Those blue eyes were fixed on him in a kind of dreamy indifference, the light from the doorway slicing out the edge of the smooth expressionless face. The eyes moved on away from him indifferently.

“That is Mekare,” the Voice whispered. “That is my prison. Move on! Move on as if you know where you are going! Do you know where you are going?”

A soft brokenhearted crying reached his ears. It was coming from the lighted room beyond the archway.

He made his way forward on the soft earthen path, clutching the machete in his right hand, fingers massaging the rough wooden handle. Strong, heavy handle. Monstrous blade. Two feet in length perhaps. A powerful cleaver. He could smell the steel blade, smell the dried mud, and smell the moist earth all around him.

He reached the doorway.

Maharet sat in a dark brown rattan chair with her face in her hands, her body clothed in a long robe of dark rose cotton. Long sleeves covered her arms, and her fingers as white as her face were dripping with the delicate blood of her tears, her long copper hair tossed behind her, covering her bent back. She was barefoot.

She cried softly.

“Khayman,” she said softly in an agonized voice. And slowly she sat back turning to face him wearily.

With a start she saw him there in the doorway.

She didn’t know who he was. She couldn’t pick his name suddenly from all the years, all the many years.

“Kill her,” said the Voice. “Get rid of her now.”

“Benedict!” he said loudly, distinctly, most certainly loud enough for his companion to hear, and at once he heard the boy coming through the garden.

“What is it you want of me?” asked the woman facing him. The blood made two fine strokes down her cheeks like the painted tears of a French clown with a china face. Her eyes were rimmed in red, her eyebrows gleaming golden.

“Ah, so it’s brought you here, has it?” she said. She rose to her feet in one swift movement, the chair thrown back and over behind her.

Some five feet stood between them.

Behind him, Benedict stood, waiting. He could hear Benedict’s breath.

“Don’t speak to her!” cried the Voice inside his head. “Don’t believe what she says to you.”

“What right have you to be here?” she demanded. It was the ancient tongue now.

He kept his face a mask. He gave not the slightest indication that he understood her.