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If he had desired relief, or even believed that sensation within his grasp, perhaps he would have accepted Sapair's words. Had Hotep not seen men mutilated in war, savaged by hippopotamus, bloated from drowning, rotten from plague — had he not been a physician! A Priest in the highest courts of the River! Then perhaps his wounded and weary mind could have let the Jodai brush all away without protest, none-the-wiser.

But one who knew the Mysteries grew accustomed to doubt from those who did not. Who perhaps never would.

And one who had been raised at court must know that what went unsaid mattered more than willing word.

Sapair confirmed nothing of Pharaoh's need for involvement.

Your head is aflame. As the words settled like silt, Hotep divined the truth in them.

It is not. Sesh hoarsed, inhaling through the exhausted tremor to stare hard into Sapair's eyes. Tired, faded with grief, and still defiant in some perfunct rejection of mortal limitation. His lip tugged, entreating, It is cold as this Northern wind, Jodai.

When I walked the Red Land alone, that was aflame. Hotep could not mistake anything for madness, having felt the grasping claws of it so intimately.

I am not at liberty to be easily shaken in the work that has been appointed to me, which I have served in, dutifully, for many years, beneath three Pharaohs. I am fearful for good reason. You must heed me.

As Priest he might have once commanded it. As sesh, he had only the power of persuasion at his disposal.

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