Scion of the Serpent: Anok, Heretic of Stygia Volume I
Page 27
Anok nodded. “I understand.”
Rami swept up the last of the coins and threw them into his bag. “See that you do.” Then he was gone.
Anok watched him walk away with mixed feelings. They had been more allies than friends. Still, the Ravens were all but gone. If things had gone just a little differently, Rami could have been the last. “At least,” he whispered, “you got out of it alive.”
He hired two strong men to rig a litter and carry Teferi back to the Nest. They put Teferi into Anok’s bed, and he immediately fell asleep.
Anok paid the men. He fell down oh the couch, exhausted. He sat there for a moment, then remembered something. He went to a cupboard, reached into a cup, and took out the ring he’d hidden there. It was the little ring Sheriti had bought him at market. He’d been afraid to take it with him to the temple, afraid the cult would take it from him. But now that seemed unlikely, as long at he never told Ramsa Aál the ring’s true significance. He slipped it on his right hand, closed it into a fist, and decided he never wanted to take it off.
He sat back down on the couch. The Mark of Set on his wrist throbbed and was warm to the touch. He pulled back his sleeve and found the skin around it raw and red. Touching it was like touching the rage that still seethed in his heart. Even the death of Wosret, the destruction of the White Scorpions, had not eased it, and he couldn’t say why.
He could barely remember what had happened after the guard’s sword had struck at Teferi’s heart. He had no idea how he had known to do the things he had done, or how, if ever, he could do them again. Was it instinct, some hidden memory, or the promised aid of the lost god Parath?
He didn’t know, but for the moment, the mystical energies seemed spent, as was he. He slumped down on the couch and was instantly asleep.
HE AWOKE TO someone moving in the room. He found several of the whores there, cleaning, tending to Teferi. Kifi, Sheriti’s mother, sat on the table bench looking at him. “So,” she said, “you’ve had your vengeance?”
He sat up and nodded. “The men who killed Sheriti are dead.”
“And how was it?”
He considered the dark powers unleashed, the look of fear on Teferi’s face when he’d looked into Anok’s eyes. “Bitter,” he said. “Bitter, like spoiled wine.”
She nodded. “This I have learned from experience,” she said. “It is never as sweet as in the imagining.” She looked at his acolyte robe, folded on the end of the couch. “You will return to that place?”
He nodded. “I must.”
“Then go,” she said. “We will nurse Teferi back to health.”
He blinked. “Sheriti. Won’t there be . . . ?”
She shook her head sadly. “We did not think you would return. She is ashes now. She lives in our memories.”
He stood, looked around the Nest one last time. “I may never return to this place.”
She nodded. “Your road leads elsewhere. Only Sheriti bound you to this place, and now she is gone.”
ANOK RETURNED TO the temple, this time through the front door. The guardians took one look at his robes, no matter how tattered and filthy, and waved him through. A few people took note of his appearance and turned to stare as he passed, but nobody waited to greet him. He wondered if word of the strange events in Odji had even reached the temple, if anyone there even cared?
He had expected that Ramsa Aál would want to talk with him, but the priest was in his chambers, recovering from Festival, Anok was told, and could not be disturbed.
And so, Anok had wound his way down the stairs to his cell. He would sleep a little more, then resume his studies and try to fathom what had happened to him and the meaning of the Mark of Set on his arm.
Somewhere in the hall outside his cell, he passed Dejal, who was headed in the other direction. To his surprise, Dejal smiled at him. “Brother, let me see!” He grabbed Anok’s arm, lifted up the sleeve, and examined the snake burned into his wrist. “So, it’s true! You’ve been gifted with the son of Set!” He looked at Anok. “Ramsa Aál is very pleased. But the best part is, he came to me today and thanked me for leading you to the cult! As your star rises, brother, so does mine, and a good thing, too.” He grinned. “It is well that you pleased our master at Festival, for I failed him. I had promised him a virgin for his personal sacrifice.” He started to walk away, laughing as he did. “It turns out,” he said, “she wasn’t a virgin at all.”
Anok’s blood turned to ice, and suddenly he knew why the anger in his heart still burned. Some part of him knew. Some part had always known.
Wosret had not killed Sheriti. Anok had killed the wrong man. It had been Dejal. Only Dejal could have lured Sheriti out onto the streets on Festival night.
How had he done it? he wondered. Had he invoked Anok’s name? Had he perhaps told her that Anok had summoned her? Had he told her that he was ill? That he needed her? Wanted her?
He wanted to run after Dejal, make him tell how he had done it, tell every horrible detail so that Anok could make him pay for each one in blood and pain. Make him pay ten times over. A hundred. A thousand.
Kill him! A voice in his head said. Kill him, kill him, kill him!
He watched as Dejal reached the end of the corridor, turned, and vanished.
Not yet.
He still had to find his father’s killers. He still had to make the Cult of Set pay for all it had done. In fact, now he had one more reason the cult must be destroyed.
He would learn the answers to the questions that tormented him. What secrets did the Scales of Set hold? Where was the third Scale? Did he have a sister, and if so, what had happened to her?
Most importantly, Dejal would pay for what he had done.
But not now.
Not today.
The rage burned in his heart, stronger than ever, and he could feel the mystical energies rebuilding within him as well. He would learn to harness that power, control it, use it. He would make the Cult of Set show him how.
Then he would destroy them, no matter the cost.
Be it his life.
Be it his soul.
Somewhere in the desert, Parath was laughing.