I paced forward into the house of the gods. The doors slid together behind me, closing Japhrimel out. Here was perhaps the only place I could truly be alone, the only place he would not intrude.
Unfortunately, leaving him outside meant leaving my protection too. I didn’t think any demon would try to attack me inside a temple, but I was just nervous enough to take a deep breath and welcome the next flush of Power spreading from the scar.
Another deep breath. Panic beat under my breastbone. I told myself it was silly. Japh was right outside the door, and my god had always answered me before.
Still, ever since the night Anubis had called me out of slumber and laid on me a geas I couldn’t remember, He had been silent. Losing that compass left me adrift in a way I’d never been before. If I’d ever needed direction and comfort, it was now.
Cairo Giza had been Islum territory in the Merican era, but Islum had choked on its own blood during the Seventy Days War, along with the Protestor Christers and the Judics, not to mention the Evangelicals of Gilead. In a world controlled by the Hegemony and Putchkin Alliance, with psions in every corner, the conditions that gave rise to the Religions of Submission have fallen away. After a brief re-flowering of fundamentalist Islum during the collapse of petroleo use, it became just another small sect—like the Novo Christers—and the old gods and state religions had risen again.
The single biggest blow to the Religions of Submission had been the Awakening and the rise of the science of Power. When anyone can contract a Shaman or Ceremonial to talk to the god of their choice, and spiritual experiences becoming commonplace—not to mention Necromances proving an afterlife exists and Magi definitively proving the existence of demons—most organized religions had died a quick hard death, replaced by personal worship of patron gods and spirits. It was, in all reality, the only logical response on humanity’s part.
Here in Egypt those old gods have returned with a vengeance, and the pyramid Ceremonials are slowly taking on the tenor of a priesthood. Most psions are religious only to the extent that the science of belief makes Power behave itself. Necromances are generally more dedicated than most; after all, our psychopomps take the faces of ancient gods and act a little differently from the average man’s deities.
Part of that probably has to do with the Trial every accredited Necromance has to face. It’s hard not to feel a little bit attached to a god who resurrects you from the psychic death of initiation and stays with you afterward, receiving you into Death’s arms when it is finally time to go into What Comes Next.
The debate remains—could a Ceremonial be a priest or priestess, and what exactly did the gods want anyway? Only nowadays, people aren’t likely to murder each other over the questions. Not often, anyway. There’s a running feud between the priestesses of Aslan and the Hegemony Albion Literary College, who say the Prophet Lewis was a Novo Christer, but only ink is spilled in that battle, not blood.
I turned to my right. Sekhmet sat on Her throne, lion-headed and strangely serene, heat blurring up from the eternal fire in a black bowl on Her altar. The heady smell of wine rose; someone had been making offerings. Past Her, there was Set, His jackal-head painted the deep red of dried blood. The powers of destruction, given their place at the left hand of creation. Necessary, and worshipped—but not safe.
Not at all safe.
Japhrimel’s last gift before breaking the news that Lucifer had summoned me again had been a glossy obsidian statue of the Fierce One. That same statue, repaired and burnished to a fine gloss, was set by the side of the bed in the boarding house even now. Please tell me She isn’t about to start messing around with me. I have all the trouble I can handle right now.
I shivered, turned to the left. There, behind Thoth’s beaky head, was the slim black dog’s face of my own god, in his own important niche.
I drew kyphii deep into my lungs. A last respectful bow to Isis and Her son, and I moved to the left.
Thoth’s statue seemed to make a quick movement as I passed. I stopped, made my obeisance. Glanced up the ceiling, lasepainted with Nuit’s starry naked form.
Plenty of psions worship the Hellene gods. There are colleges of Asatru and Teutonica as well as the Faery tradition in Hegemony Europa. The Shamans have their loa, and there are some who follow the path of the Left Hand and worship the Unspeakable. The Tantrics have their devas and the Hindu their huge intricate assemblages, Native Mericans and Islanders their own branches of magick and Shamanic training passed down through blood and ritual; the Buddhists and Zenmos their own not-quite-religious traditions. There are as many religions as there are people on the earth, the Magi say. Even the demons were worshipped one long-ago time, mistaken for gods.
For me, there had never really been any choice. I’d dreamed of a dog-headed man all through my childhood, and had taken the requisite Religious Studies classes at Rigger Hall. One of the first religions studied was Egyptianica, since it was such a popular sect—and I’d felt at home from the very beginning. Everything about the gods of the Nile was not so much learned for me as deeply remembered, as if I’d always known but just needed the reminding.
The first time I’d gone into Death, Anubis had been there; He had never left me since. Where else would I turn for solace, but to Him?
I reached His niche. Tears welled up, my throat full of something hard and hot. I sank down to one knee, rose. Stepped forward. Approached His statue, the altar before it lit by novenas and crowded with offerings. Food, drink, scattered New Credit notes, sticks of fuming incense. Even the normals propitiated Him, hoping for some false mercy when their time came, hoping to live past whatever appointed date and hour Death chose.
My rings sparked, golden points of light popping in the dark. From the obsidian ring on my right third finger to the amber on my right and left middle, the moonstone on my left index, the bloodstone on my left third; the Suni-figured thumbring sparked too, reacting with the charge of Power in the air. The Power I carried, tied to a demon and no longer strictly human myself, quivered uneasily.
My Lord, my god, please hear me. I need You.
I sank down to my knees, my katana blurring out of its sheath. Laid the bright steel length on the stone floor in front of me, rested my hands on my thighs. Closed my eyes and prayed.
Please. I am weary, and I hunger for Your touch, my Lord. Speak to me. You have comforted me, but I want to hear You.
My breathing deepened. The blue glow began, rising at the very corners of my mental sight. I began the prayer I’d learned long ago, studying from Novo Egyptos books in the Library at Rigger Hall. “Anubis et’her ka,” I whispered. “Se ta’uk’fhet sa te vapu kuraph. Anubis et’her ka. Anubis, Lord of the Dead, Faithful Companion, protect me, for I am Your child. Protect me, Anubis, weigh my heart upon the scale; watch over me, Lord, for I am Your child. Do not let evil distress me, but turn Your fierceness upon my enemies. Cover me with Your gaze, let Your hand be upon me, now and all the days of my life, until You take me into Your embrace.”
Another deep breath, my pulse slowing, the silent place in me where the god lived opening like a flower. “Anubis et’her ka,” I repeated, as blue light rose in one sharp flare. The god of Death took me, swallowed me whole—and I was simply, utterly glad.
The blue crystal walls of Death rose up, but I was not on the bridge over the well of souls. Instead, the crystal shaped itself into a Temple, a psychic echo of the place my body knelt in. Before me the god appeared in the cipher of a slim black dog, sitting back on His haunches and regarding me with His infinitely-starred black eyes.
I had not come here of my own accord since Jace’s death.
I had wept. I had raged against Him, set my will against His, blamed Him, sobbed in Japhrimel’s arms about the utter unfairness of it. Yet I know Death does not play favorites. He loves all equally, and when it is time, not all the grief of the living will dissuade His purpose.
This, then, my agony—how do I love my god and still rage against His will? How do I grieve a
nd yet love Him?
Here I wore the white robe of the god’s chosen, belted with silver dripping like fishscales. My knees pressed chill against blue crystal floor, the emerald burning against my cheek like a live brand. It was His mark, set in my skin by humans but still with His will, the gem that marked me as Death’s chosen. I blessed whatever accident of genetics gifted me with the Power to walk in His realm and feel His touch.
I met His eyes. I was not bringing a soul back from Death, so I did not need the protection of cold steel—but my hand ached to close reflexively around a swordhilt. His gaze was blackness from lid to lid, starred with cold blue jewels of constellations none of the living would ever see and glazed with blue sheen. Galaxies died in Death’s eyes as the god’s attention rested on me, a huge burden for such a small being—though I was infinite enough in my own right, being His child. That in itself was a mystery, how I could contain the infinity of the god, and how He could contain my own endless soul.
He took the weight from me, certainty replacing the burden. I was His, I had always been His. From before my birth the god had set His hand upon me. He could no more abandon me than I could abandon Him. Though I had set my will against His, even cursed Him in the pain of my grief—and still, sometimes, did—He did not mind. He was my god, and would not desert me.
But there was Lucas, wasn’t there? The man Death had turned His back on.
Thought became action instantly in this space; my question leapt, a thread of meaning laid in the receptive space between us, a cord stretched taut. The sound brushed through me, an immense church-bell gong of the god’s laughter. The Deathless’s path was not mine, Anubis reminded me. My path was my own, and my covenant with Death was always unbroken, no matter if I cursed him in my human grief.
I am clay—and if the clay cuts the hand of the potter who created it, who is to blame?
He spoke.
The meanings of His word burned through me, each stripping away a layer. So many layers, so many different things to fight through; each opening like a flower to the god. There was no other being, human, god, or demon, that I would bow my head in submission to. And so, my promise to Him. I accepted.
The geas burned at me, the fire of His touch and some other fire that moved through him combining. I had something to do—something the god would not show me yet.
Would I do what the god asked? When the time came, would I submit to His will and do what He asked of me?
Bitterness rose inside me. Death does not bargain, does not play favorites, and had already taken people I loved.
Doreen, Jace, Lewis, Roanna . . . each name was a star in the constellations filling His eyes. I could have raged against Him, but what would be the point? His promise to me was utter certainty. The people I loved went into Death and He held them; when my own time came I would see them again. No matter what else What Comes Next contained, I could be certain it held the souls of those who mattered to me in life, whose love and duty still lay upon me, a welcome weight of obligation.
That weight was the measure of my honor. What is honor without promises kept?
As for myself, going into Death’s embrace would be like welcoming a lover, a celebration I feared even as I ached for it. Every living creature fears the unknown. To have even a small measure of certainty in the midst of that fear is a treasure. Unlike the poor blind souls who have to take my word for it, I know who will clasp my hand when I die and help me through the door into What Comes Next. Knowing helps the fear, even if it does not lessen it.
I bowed, my palms together; a deep obeisance reaching into my very heart. My long stubborn life unreeled under His touch.
I am Your child, I whispered. Tell me what I must do.
The slim black dog regarded me with awful, infinitely merciful eyes. Shook His head, gravely. Even the geas was only to tell me what choice was required when the time approached. I was free. He only asked, and in the asking, did not promise to love me less if I denied Him.
Such perfect love is not for humans.
There was no other answer I could give, for all the freedom He granted me.
I would not deny Him, it would be denying myself. His approval warmed me, all the way down to my bones. How could I have doubted Him?
There was one more question I had, and meaning stretched between us again, a cord strained to its limits.
I could not help myself. I lifted my head, and I spoke his name to the god. Japhrimel.
The emerald on my cheek flared, sparks cascading down. The god’s face changed, a canine smile. His eyes flashed green for the barest moment.
My god released me, unanswered—and yet, with a curious sense of having been told what was important, holding the knowledge for one glorious heart-stopping moment before the shock of slamming—
—back into my body drove the understanding away. I gasped, bent double, my cold, numb hand curling reflexively around my swordhilt. I leapt to my feet, my boots slamming against stone floor. My heart pounded inside its flexible cage of ribs. I swallowed several times, blinked.
The entire Temple was full of shadows, soft nasty laughter chittering against its high roof. Demon-acute sight pierced the gloom, showed me every corner and crack, down to the flow and flux of Power wedded to the walls. There were no other worshippers, and that was strange, wasn’t it? It wasn’t like a temple—especially this one—to be empty, especially in the middle of the day.
Copper-tasting demon adrenaline jolted me. The chill of Death flushed itself out of fingers and toes. Other Necromances use sex or sparring to shake the cold of Death and flush the bitter taste of it away. I used to go slicboarding, using speed and antigrav danger to bring myself back to the land of the breathing. This time, I was brought back by the sense of being watched.
No. The knowledge I was being watched.
But I saw nobody. My heartbeat finally returned to something like normal, and I let out a soft sigh. I was in a temple, under the gaze of my god and with Japhrimel right outside the door. What could harm me here?
My sword sang, sliding back into the sheath. Fudoshin, Jado had named it, and it had served me well. Very well, considering it had bit the Devil’s flesh without shattering. There was some Power locked in the steel’s heart my sensei hadn’t told me about.
You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking, are you Danny? You can’t kill the Devil. It can’t be done. That’s why he’s the Prince of Hell, he’s the oldest of demons, the one they’re all descended from. It’s impossible.
I couldn’t. But maybe Japhrimel could—he had, after all, pushed Lucifer back. Away from me.
Or, if Japh couldn’t kill him, he might at least persuade the Devil to leave Eve alone. It was the least I could do for Doreen’s daughter.
My daughter, too. If she could be believed.
I looked up again, at the god of Death’s face. He deserved an offering, though I had precious little to give Him right at the moment. Everything I owned had gone up in flames, one way or another.
Including my relationship with Japhrimel. I love him, but how am I going to convince him to leave Eve alone? And how the hell am I going to get him to stop simply using his strength to force me to do anything he wants me to? He’s apologized, but the precedent’s been set.
I slid one of my main knives free, steel glittering in the light from the forest of novenas. Set the blade against my palm, worked it back and forth to penetrate tough golden skin. This earned me a handful of black demon blood I tipped carefully into a shallow bone dish full of strong red wine, someone else’s offering. I used the knife to saw off a handful of my hair—longer now, since Japhrimel had brought me back after the hover incident. Shoulder-length instead of hacked around my ears—but it was still odd to walk around without a braid bumping my back whenever I turned my head.
I bowed again, the cut on my palm closing, black blood sealing away the hurt. “I wish I had more for You,” I said quietly to the statue, knowing He would hear and understand. “My thanks, my Lord.�
�
Did the shadows move to cloak Him? I blinked, the sense of being watched strong and inarguable. It wasn’t like my sight to be clouded—I’d had excellent vision even before being gifted with demon-acute senses. I stared up at the dog’s head above the narrow black chest, the crook and flail held in his long black hands, the kilt of gems running with reflected candlelight. Strong One, we who followed Anubis called him; Protector. And also, the most loving name—the Gentle One. The one who eased all hurts, the god who never left us, even at life’s end.
“Anubis et’her ka,” I repeated. “Thank you.”
As I paced away, the statues didn’t move. I wondered if I should offer to Sekhmet, discarded the notion. It was dangerous to attract Her attention—I had all the destruction I could handle in my life right now. I bowed one last time to Isis and Horus, made my way to the granite doors. They opened inward for me, Power sparking and spiraling through their cores, and when I stepped out into the entry hall Japhrimel still stood in the same spot, his hands clasped behind his back, examining the walls.
The doors swung closed behind me. Finally, his eyes returned to mine. “Did you find what you needed?”
The air between us was brittle and clear as thin crystal. He was trying so hard to be careful with me.
I’m trying too, Japhrimel. I love you, and I’m trying. I shrugged. “Gods.” I gave him a smile that tried to be natural. “I’m hungry. Did you mention food?”
2
The boarding house was a large sloping mudbrick building, stasis and containment fields glimmering over every window and door. The heat was almost as tremendous as the blowing sand. I spent a few moments on the sidewalk outside the building, basking in sunlight. Japhrimel, a blot on the tawny day with his long black coat, waited silently.
Saint City Sinners Page 2