Seated on a mat in his room at the sanctuary, Metjen waggled the greyish flatbread in front of his face, then slapped it back on the plate in disgust. The fruit was overboiled, the bread was overdone and the hibiscus tea was far too strong. The deep red beverage was one of his favourites. Why the good sisters let his steep longer than the others' was beyond him. He was the youngest of them all, so there was no need to lower his blood pressure.

He slurped the sour liquid--sugar never seemed to find its way into the temple. At least the brew was hot. Too hot. But the tea did not help his headache. He wished he could mind-numb the twinge, but this was not how things worked, and he would have to seek his old mentor, Nebmutef, instead. Metjen pushed the remains of his breakfast aside. He rose to perform his ablutions in the pathetic excuse for a bathroom at the back of his cell and dressed in the ceremonial ankle-length white shendyt for today's festivities. An outdoor ceremony was unusual. In fact, he had never witnessed this ceremony before, it happened infrequently, or so the old priest had told him.

As he made his way towards the back corridor, he wondered what Iseret had in store for them. Earlier this morning what passed for a stampede in this place had limped, shuffled and wheezed past his cell, and most of the Servants were above-ground, extending the veil. He had been charged with preparing the holy chamber, so it would be ready to receive whatever object Iseret wanted to expose to the rays of the early morning sun.

Metjen yawned. In his opinion, the evening sun would have been better suited for the purpose. Whatever it might be.

As he passed through the back corridor, he could not resist and entered one of the storage rooms which housed their most precious possessions. Like the others lined up in a row, this chamber burst with heirlooms scrambled together by the faithful, when the old temples fell prey to the invaders. Any self-respecting archaeologist would have sacrificed body parts to get a glimpse of their collection. Not his parents though, they had already enjoyed this privilege.

Boxes were stacked upon boxes; furniture, vessels and amphora all creating a colourful chaos in the small room. Metjen shook his head at the mess and winced. His headache was deteriorating and he rubbed his temples. As he retreated, he brushed against the handle of a basket teetering on a table decorated with the webbed feet of waterfowl.

He pushed out his hand—too late. The basket took the plunge. A resounding crash was followed by floating dust motes and a memory of flowers. The basket burst open upon impact, spilling its load of amulets in a multi-coloured rush.

'Lord Metjen, what is it you are doing?'

Metjen sneezed twice and glowered at the brother whose solid body blocked the entrance. 'Does nobody ever clean in here?'

Khafa shook his head. He and his sister, despite being in their early fourties, were closer in age to Metjen than anybody else in the temple. 'Her Wisdom does not wish this to be done.' He stared at the objects covering the floor and nervously checked the corridor. 'You will need to clear this up. Shall I help?'

'Make sure we are undisturbed.' Metjen concentrated on his sun-flow, coaxing up the magic until his fingertips tingled. He raised his palms towards the rock-solid temple ceiling hiding the azure skies of mid day.

Nothing happened. Instead, his headache got worse.

Metjen swore. He would not be granted a quick fix today. He focussed once more, this time straightening his hands at his sides with the palms facing the ground, drawing on the strength of Geb, the god of the Earth. Earth was closer to fire, the natural source of his talent. The braziers were not burning; so he was out of options on that score.

This time he got lucky. The basket rose from the floor onto the table and in a glittery trickle the spilled objects tinkled back into their container.

As the lid slapped shut, Metjen leaned against the wall, breathing hard. His vision wavered in and out of focus, revealing a concerned-looking Khafa.

'Are you all right?' Khafa asked.

'Fine, just peachy,' Metjen said. 'I shared most of my powers yesterday. Seems like I have to do this all the time nowadays. It's giving me headaches. Plus, I have no time to go Beyond and stock up on Divine energy to fix things. It isn't fair.' Even to his own ears his voice sounded plaintive.

Khafa patted his arm. 'I know, I know. I will find Nebmutef for you. He is not outside yet, he wanted to talk to you.' Khafa waddled off, leaving Metjen in the stale half light of the storage room. With a groan, he pushed himself off the wall and proceeded towards the holy chamber. He lowered himself on his knees, noticing the pressure in his head increase on the way down. He spoke his prayer, dragged himself back up and broke the clay seal on the door. It creaked open and revealed the statue of Ra on his bark accompanied by his consort Hathor, in her impersonation as a cow.

Metjen grabbed the holy brush placed next to the entrance and swept the walkway round the gods which was as clean as he had left it the last time.

His mood deteriorated further. My talents have carried me high up the food chain. I'm second only to Her Wisdom. But because I'm the youngest, I'm nothing but a bloody janitor.

His headache squeezed his head in its vise, so Metjen was relieved to hear a tapping noise outside, dropped the brush and moved into the corridor. Nebmutef came towards the shrine, leaning on his cane, with a troubled expression wrinkling his kind old face.

'Are you done here? We are ready above, and she will not be pleased if you are late again. I have sent Khafa to the surface, we are the last ones left behind. '

'She's never pleased whatever I do. Anyway, I've finished. And I'll only be late if you can't loosen those jaws of the crocodile god clamped around my head this morning.'

The old priest smiled as he touched Metjen's forehead, appealed to Thoth, the God of science and healing, and Metjen's headache dissipated in an instant. As they were making their way outside at a pace Nebmutef could muster, Metjen quizzed him about the ceremony nobody had ever mentioned before. It had to be important, given that it made their temperamental leader even more tetchy than usual.

'This ritual is unique. Every 100 years the key enjoys the rays of Ra. And when the ceremony is over, we are safe, and the temple will continue for another century.'

Metjen raised his eyebrows 'The key? What key? Did you see this before?And what's it supposed to do?'

'Nothing,' Nebmutef said. He would not get anything else out of the man. Metjen knew him only too well from the time when Nebmutef had taught him the ways of the temple until Metjen had passed initiation and joined him and Iseret in the Blessing. Having helped his mentor off the ladder, Metjen noticed Ra rising in the East, already radiating heat onto the featureless desert.

Just in time, he thought as he stepped into the circle that was forming to welcome the light of their god.

Iseret emerged from behind the cliffs, carrying an object not much bigger than her hand. It was new to him—shaped like an obelisk it was made of a crystalline substance. He started—the material seemed familiar. The little obelisk had to be heavy as she heaved it above her head with an effort, facing the rays that turned more piercing by the minute.

The circle did not move while Iseret softly chanted a prayer, her muscles quivering. She lowered the object again, then extended it towards the priests and held it at waist height. A smile of relief flitted across her sharp face. The brothers and sisters erupted with cheers, and Metjen dared to release his breath. Iseret beckoned for him to come forward.

He did, inclined his head to show his respect and regarded the so-called key that continued to be the focus of much joyous attention. Metjen noticed three disks of an opaque blue at the front and a seal at the side. A familiar seal.

Imhotep.

Metjen scrutinised Iseret's face, which gave nothing away.

I assume this is a good portent?

That it is.

She was not in the mood for further disclosures, and nobody in the group was interested in doing more than beaming with admiration at either the artefact or their revered leader. If his father had been present, he would have tried a body tackle on Iseret to get at the key of Imhotep or whatever that thing was.

Metjen cringed at the thought. He loved his parent despite their difficulties. And he had to more careful with his thoughts. Outside the temple it was harder for her to read his mind, but he did not want to take any risk.

'The Servants will continue for another century. Let us now deliver the key to the Lord Ra,' she said.

Sistra jangled, cymbals clanged, and incense rose as they made their way down, causing temporary congestion on the ladder. Still bearing the little object, Iseret floated on ahead of them. That was another one of her tricks. Why walk if you could hover? She sailed along the corridor, towards the chamber of the gods. Once all three of them were inside the shrine, Metjen and Nebmutef stood guard as Iseret reverently lowered the holy obelisk onto the pedestal waiting in front of the two statues. She spoke a final prayer, and the ceremony ended.

Bowing, they walked and floated backwards until they reached the corridor. With a snap of Iseret's fingers, the door slowly closed on the gods.

The light flickered. The doors slammed back open.

A coppery stench flooded the small chamber. On the pedestal, the key started humming. The first of its disks lit up. Then the second. And the third.

A murmur rose out of nowhere. '—save—sleepers. The balance—breaking—end.'

Iseret half jumped backwards, but caught herself as the cow horns on her head slipped. The other Servants crowding the corridor and huddling in the principal chamber noticed that something was wrong and jostled to get closer. From the surprise they projected in their minds, everybody heard what felt like a breathing in their heads.

Iseret herself appeared—thunderstruck?

But the expression dissolved into her usual mask. When vocal joined the cerebral babble, she scythed it down with a motion of her hand. Next she spoke what he recognised to be the invocation of a major veil none of the others, not even Metjen, would have mastered.

Silence fell. Nobody moved. Only the three little blue lights continued to shine. The smell of copper was overpowered by whiffs of trapped anxiety wafting from the packed priestly mass.

Iseret regarded the obelisk and drew a long breath. 'I see it is time after all.'

Metjen and Nebmutef stepped behind her as she faced the quivering wall of faces. There were many questions Metjen would have loved to ask. Now was not the right moment.

The key lit up when it beheld the gods, Iseret projected. It has never done this before. I will go and establish which path we should follow among the possible futures. Obey those next in rank to me until my return.

She waved two fingers at Metjen and Nebmutef, who bowed to acknowledge the order. Iseret inclined her head and, having mind-squeezed her priests out of the way, swished into her personal chamber at the end of the corridor.

The door shut with a bang.

***

The Servants found many excuses to open the holy shrine and sneak a peek at the obelisk. Metjen did not think they could do any harm, instead he had them sweeping the floor every time. The lights on the small object continued to shine at them serenely. The murmur, however, had vanished.

Metjen's frustration rose as the hours trickled away. How was he supposed to be in charge when he was left in the dark? There was no sign of Iseret. Nebmutef was no wiser than Metjen. At least that was what he claimed.

Eventually, the tension got too much and Metjen thundered up the ladder, ran into the desert and blasted a few rocks into oblivion. He did not care a single bit whether they had been mapped or photographed or whatever made his life difficult these days. When he returned to the temple, one of the sisters was waiting for him. Without a word, she handed over a cup of the sour tea, which he drank gratefully.

Lines of fatigue showed in Iseret's face when she returned the next morning. She deflated onto the floor of the main chamber and motioned for them to sit.

'I have contemplated the possible futures and have decided. The only safe prospect I see is to trust in the hand of fate while we continue with our duties.. There is nothing we can do. We can only wait.'

The others nodded slowly.

'Your Wisdom, forgive me, but can you not tell us what is happening—or what did you see among the futures? Maybe, we can be of help?' Metjen braved himself for mental onslaught.

It did not come. Instead, she contemplated him with an expression that could pass for concern. 'Yes, you would ask. But I cannot tell you, I am sorry.' She was sorry? That scared him, but before he could say anything else she waved them away. 'Go home, brothers and sisters. You have done your duty, and the other group shall take over for the allotted time. May the Lord Ra shine on your path.'

He got up, but she called him back. 'Tell your sister and brother they shall not join us at this moment. I will not hold them to their word, at least not before we have more certainty. We need to see which of the futures will prevail. In far too many of them I saw no Servants... .'

'But ... .'

She ignored him, stalked towards her chamber and slammed the door shut. Metjen felt like destroying more rocks. He searched for Nebmutef, could not sense him, changed into T-shirt and jeans and stormed up the ladder into the glare of a noontime sun that seemed to mock him by its brightness. He glared right back.

A melee of voices assaulted his ears, the arriving and departing priests, Nebmutef among them, stood in a huddle, gesticulating, mind-speaking and all shouting at once. Worried faces turned towards him as he emerged in their midst.

Metjen shook his head and together with Nebmutef established order among the brothers and sisters milling around the access hole like a flock of disoriented sheep. Finally, they had the new arrivals on their way into the temple and the others shuffling back through the desert. Metjen shuffled with them, seething quietly, until he reached his Jeep and returned towards Cairo.

He surfaced into reality as he went along, passing overloaded buses belching diesel fumes and mobile car wrecks with men in long fluttering robes clinging on for dear life. They were shouting either at their drivers or the other traffic—him. Even the few donkey carts full of sugar cane or metal scraps took exception when he wove around them at full speed, the beasts bucking and braying with disgust. People screamed and waved their fists in his direction. They could not know he was a magical being. As well as a priest of an ancient religion. He still felt unwanted.

Finally, he turned off into the tree-shaded streets leading to his family home. The peace and normality of the gardens sheltering the Maadi mansion made him laugh. Almost.

Looks like Imhotep has been rather busy .... If you liked this, please vote and maybe let me know your feedback. And please share the story with your friends. So many readers tell me they love my novel - I hope there are more people out there who will like it too! Thank you so much!

===

This chapter is dedicated to LucyFace who gave my heroine a face! Not only is Lucy the author of 'Ashes to Ashes', a beautiful romance, but she also is a professional cover artist who created the the fantastic cover for 'Cursed Times'.