Chapter 5: The Grudge of the Three Smiles

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Rakhrys had been waiting in the palace the entire morning, with the seers’ procession already gathered at the gates before dawn, awaiting an audience. Throughout this long wait, he had to sit perfectly upright to maintain the dignity befitting a pharaoh.

One by one, the seers arranged by the temple arrived. He had seen the first few before; though he did not attend court meetings, he inevitably encountered them during major festivals that required his presence. Because not everyone had arrived yet, all had to wait.

Time slowly passed until the sun was fully risen, and the last seer finally appeared, arriving late. Rakhrys’s gaze drifted past the young acolyte walking ahead, settling on the seer following behind. This was the person Queen Meret had suddenly insisted be added to the list. Perhaps Meret simply enjoyed seeing others yield to her, or maybe this person held some special significance to her.

As his eyes landed on the man, Rakhrys felt as though his vision wavered. The youth was slender, his linen robe less fair than his pale skin, which resembled snow drifting over the desert sands. Turquoise, blood-red carnelian, and even the gold symbolizing divinity and immortality served only as accents upon him.

In sun-kissed Egypt, such skin alone was enough to turn countless heads, not to mention his strikingly handsome face. His narrow eyes tilted slightly upward at the corners, carrying a hint of indifference, as if nothing truly caught his attention.

At that moment, those beautiful eyes were looking downward at the foot of the throne. Rakhrys belatedly realized what the youth was staring at and felt a flush of embarrassment. Hastily, he tugged at his robe, trying to conceal his dangling feet, which had nowhere to rest.

Sure enough, he was of slave origin, lacking any proper upbringing or sense of hierarchy and etiquette.

The young seer, Boey, with no such notions, smiled faintly, amused by the boy’s indignation. This child was truly unflappable—why so easily upset?

There were many in the palace. Among those present, four others wore scarab-shaped armlets indicating their status as seers: two middle-aged men and two elderly priests with graying hair. Their ages and appearances matched the stereotypical image of learned teachers.

By contrast, sixteen-year-old Boey looked youthful and inexperienced, standing among them like a tourist.

“These esteemed gentlemen will serve as your seers in the coming days, assisting you in learning the affairs of governance,” said Dohe, a female attendant standing just below the pharaoh’s throne, her demeanor respectful. “Allow me to introduce them to Your Majesty.”

Boey stood to her right, closest to her, but her gaze passed him by directly, beginning with the elder priest beside Boey. “This is Priest Taiyi, who oversees the temple’s rituals and will be responsible for your theological studies.”

Taiyi rose shakily and knelt with difficulty, performing the standard gesture of respect between ruler and servant. His age made the movement laborious. Dohe glanced at Rakhrys, signaling him to assist the elder priest to display the pharaoh’s humility.

A flicker of impatience passed through Rakhrys’s dark golden eyes but was quickly masked, unnoticed by others.

To everyone present, this young pharaoh was but a compliant puppet, obediently fulfilling all demands. Some even claimed that, even if it weren’t for Queen Meret, controlling this pharaoh would be no challenge.

“Please rise, Priest Taiyi,” Rakhrys said, stepping down from the throne to help the old priest. The sound of his woven sandals striking the granite floor rang crisp and clear.

Suddenly, a suppressed chuckle emerged, so low it might have gone unnoticed if not for the close proximity.

Rakhrys froze instantly. The men of the Amonhotep family were all robust and strong, towering taller than their peers since youth, fierce warriors capable of facing many on the battlefield.

All but him.

Because he was frail, rumors circulated within the palace that he was his mother’s illegitimate child.

His mother was a foreign beauty gifted to the pharaoh by a tribe, beloved by his father for her dark golden eyes. The Egyptians could never resist anything linked to gold.

The same year his father died in battle, his mother gave birth to him. But his father had been away campaigning for over a year, only briefly returning to Thebes during the Valley Festival before setting out again.

He inherited his mother’s eyes but not the mighty stature of the Amonhotep lineage.

Thus, the rumors arose.

His dark golden eyes sought the source of the laughter. It was the youngest seer, and again, it was him.

“You…” Rakhrys’s temple veins bulged.

Boey considered himself well-traveled, yet seeing the pharaoh so ill at ease beneath his throne was too amusing to suppress.

He forced his smile down and cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, it appears Priest Taiyi is not feeling well.”

At this, all eyes turned toward Boey.

Whose fault was it? They had been standing for who knew how long, waiting from the beginning to the end of the festival. Anyone would feel unwell by now.

Though Taiyi was seated, it was still alarming; they all feared the old priest might collapse and meet the gods prematurely.

“Please, honored seers, be seated,” Rakhrys said through clenched teeth, his cheeks still plump with residual baby fat.

Boey smiled, which only fueled Rakhrys’s irritation.

The pharaoh intended to stand, unwilling to give that insolent slave the satisfaction of watching him struggle, but seeing him remain standing, Taiyi shakily rose again.

How could a pharaoh stand while his elders sat?

Rakhrys: “……”

Eventually, under Boey’s amused gaze, he begrudgingly sat back down upon the throne.

Dohe pretended not to notice the silent clash between the two and continued the introductions, now focusing on the elder priest beside Taiyi.

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“This is High Priest Damanhur, in charge of astral observation, calculation, and the calendar. He holds great authority and will provide many insights for your communication with the gods.”

After introducing these two, Dohe’s tone became noticeably more concise, gesturing to one of the middle-aged priests in the center.

“This is Priest Hemun, responsible for law and administration.”

Regarding the last middle-aged man, Dohe hesitated before adding,

“This is General Miver, who will guide you in military and martial affairs.”

Boey had never heard these names before. No matter how illustrious they were in this era, their existence was destined to be forgotten after Egypt fell to foreign invasions and regimes changed.

Rakhrys greeted each seer respectfully.

Miver was tall and strong, nearly two meters in height. Even seated, he towered over Rakhrys, who stood before him. He looked down at the fragile-looking pharaoh, thin and delicate enough to be crushed with one hand.

After a moment, he patted Rakhrys twice on the shoulder and smiled. “I am a rough man skilled only in warfare. I will surely trouble Your Majesty in the future, and I hope you will not hold it against me.”

Though the words were courteous, the strength in his hands was unmistakable. Rakhrys staggered, nearly falling, a red handprint visibly blossoming on his shoulder.

“Miver,” Taiyi frowned, warning him sternly to not go too far.

Miver ignored him, withdrawing his hand. “The high priests tend to be overly indulgent of our young pharaoh. There are no soft men like this in Egypt.”

He paused, then, as if recalling something, glanced at Boey with a teasing tone. “Oh, pardon me. There are a few like that in Queen Meret’s harem.”

At this, everyone present visibly changed expression.

“Miver, how dare you!” Dohe shouted angrily.

To compare His Majesty to the male favorites of Queen Meret’s harem was not just bold—it was a blatant insult to the royal family’s honor.

Boey, innocently caught in the middle, pretended not to understand the implication and ignored the remark, instead observing the reactions of those in the palace.

Some servants even lowered their heads to stifle laughter. This young pharaoh truly had no authority.

Compared to the outraged temple officials, it was the pharaoh’s own reaction that piqued Boey’s interest.

The boy’s face remained expressionless; he did not even show the anger that a short-legged child might when mocked. Perhaps he was used to the ministers’ disdain.

Officially the pharaoh, everyone knew the true power resided in the Bastet Palace. The pharaoh was more like a statue stationed within the palace, brought out only for ceremonies to be revered by the people.

Sensing Boey’s gaze, Rakhrys tightened his lips and tugged his garment down.

Boey: “…”

How could he possibly keep from laughing?

“Mistress Dohe is as earnest as ever,” Miver chuckled. “Your Majesty does not mind such jokes, so why are you taking it so seriously?”

Dohe gritted her teeth in frustration.

What could it matter if His Majesty minded or not? Any minister with even a shred of real power ignored him, though most still maintained a show of respect for appearances.

Only Miver, relying on his father, the great general Sebek, and Queen Meret’s backing, spoke with such insolence.

“Mistress Dohe,” Rakhrys shook his head, “please continue the introductions.”

Both understood well: quarrels were the impotent rage of the weak, utterly meaningless.

Dohe clenched her fists, swallowing her anger before continuing. “Finally…”

Seeing Boey’s distinct face again, she stiffened. Queen Meret had truly managed to place two infuriating individuals together without getting hurt herself.

Since Boey’s arrival, everyone had been observing him, whether intentionally or not.

Setting aside his foreign appearance, a sixteen-year-old seer was unheard of. Rumor said he was once a slave.

Not greatly harmful, but deeply insulting.

Even those Meret appointed could only sigh in frustration.

Boey smiled with narrowed eyes, gesturing for her to proceed.

Dohe wondered how Meret managed to assemble such provocateurs without suffering backlash.

“This is Lord Ai,” Dohe’s smile faltered, “who will guide Your Majesty in literature and language.”

She had always felt it improper to entrust the education of the pharaoh to a slave, but due to Meret’s influence, the temple authorities had finally agreed to let this slave oversee literary instruction.

Even if the slave proved inadequate, High Priests Taiyi and Damanhur could cover those lessons.

Boey understood—he was the language teacher.

After meeting the pharaoh, everyone could leave.

Perhaps to make things difficult for him, the temple prioritized his lessons.

The pharaoh’s palace had many rooms. Boey was led by a maid to the study to wait.

When meeting ministers, the pharaoh wore formal attire; otherwise, he wore casual robes.

On the desk lay a stack of blank papyrus sheets and ink brushes—nothing else.

Boey pondered whether this meant the teaching materials had to be prepared by the seers themselves; if not, then these temple men were deliberately making things hard for him.

After all, he was a slave without rights.

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When Rakhrys appeared before him again, Boey scrutinized him carefully but could not discern any difference between formal and casual robes. Was it not all linen?

If there was a difference, it was that the magnificent pharaoh’s crown had been replaced by a golden wheat-ear crown, which seemed much lighter.

To avoid disturbing the pharaoh’s studies, the palace staff withdrew to the outer chamber, leaving only a single attendant for service.

“Your Majesty…” Boey began, but was immediately interrupted.

“I will not acknowledge you as my seer,” Rakhrys’s face darkened, still smarting from the earlier triple laughter in the hall.

Never before had a slave served as a seer to a pharaoh—it was a profound humiliation.

Boey raised an eyebrow. “My apologies, Your Majesty.”

Rakhrys thought he was apologizing for earlier behavior and felt a brief relief, only to hear the next sentence.

“I have no intention of teaching Your Majesty,” Boey said, “I do not enjoy playing the mentor.”

Rakhrys stood before him, barely reaching his chest. To maintain authority, he had to tilt his head upward to meet Boey’s gaze.

Boey looked down at him, a faint curve on his lips. “If you want to be my student…”

He appraised him from head to toe, chuckling lightly. “Your Majesty is not qualified.”

He spoke sincerely.

In modern times, many sought to join his law firm, but he dismissed most. The only one he respected, who could rival him in court, was later imprisoned by Boey himself for tax evasion.

This young pharaoh was even less impressive.

Rakhrys was stunned. When he grasped the meaning behind the words, his fists clenched in fury. “How dare you, a slave, look down on me!”

Even if he was a mere figurehead pharaoh, he would never allow a slave to mock him.

Boey laughed freely. “And why should Your Majesty inspire my respect?”

After dealing with sly old foxes for so long, he hardly recalled the last time he encountered such a loud, boastful cub.

Strangely, he rather missed it.

“I am the pharaoh of all Egypt,” Rakhrys’s eyes reddened, his voice gritted through clenched teeth.

Boey laughed at this. “The brave grow angry and draw their blades against the stronger; the coward grows angry and draws against the weaker.”

He paused. “I was born mud, but now I am Your Majesty’s seer. Your Majesty was born noble but has degraded himself to compare with mud like me.”

Rakhrys felt a sharp pain in his chest.

He was Egypt’s most exalted, yet he could only vent his anger upon a slave. How pitiful.

Boey’s smile faded, indifferent to the boy’s embarrassment and shame. “I am a seer, not a babysitter. I hope Your Majesty understands this.”

For him, the title of seer was important, not the position.

His scalp tingled, blood surging.

Extreme anger brought Rakhrys a strange calm.

Inciting him was always the queen’s amusement. He could remain indifferent to others, even Miver, but with this man, he lost his composure.

Egypt had a tradition where kings did not meet other kings. All princes were sent to palaces upon birth; the heir stayed to learn rulership, while others were dispatched to govern elsewhere.

Rakhrys had two older brothers and one younger sister, born on the battlefield and carried home with their father’s corpse.

Their father never named an heir, and Queen Meret paid scant attention to succession, leaving the throne vacant for years.

Though a prince, Rakhrys endured bullying due to rumors about his mother. His elder brothers bullied him routinely; even palace staff were duplicitous, secretly withholding his provisions. When starving, he left the palace to seek food among commoners, at times fighting refugees for a hard loaf.

Only after Queen Meret’s decree was he made pharaoh.

But this was merely exchanging one prison for another.

“You boast, yet you only rose by crawling into a woman’s bed,” Rakhrys took a deep breath, swallowing his emotions.

He refused to be led by this man’s nose; he was merely a lowly slave.

Boey looked at him meaningfully. “The means matter little; at least I am a genuine seer.”

Though scorned by peers, at least now he was a seer—not a favorite, servant, or slave.

“Genuine” struck Rakhrys painfully.

Though ministers often disrespected him, no one had so brazenly humiliated him before.

“You won Meret’s favor with that mouth? That’s why you became a seer?”

Disgusted by the open mockery and belittlement, Rakhrys racked his brain for insults learned in street brawls, eager to make the other taste the bitterness of crushed dignity.

Yet the one attacked felt no shame, only amused, smiling at him. “If you had such value, I wouldn’t mind using my mouth to please you.”