The guard shrugged.
“I am old, friend,” Faysal continued, “I would not remain long.”
The guard ignored him.
At this point Faysal had expected that the guard would hold out his hand for an appropriate sum, a sum Faysal had stashed in the deep pocket of his pale brown galabayya. Faysal muttered a curse in the language of the companions.
The guard started in recognition.
Faysal’s heart leapt.
“Friend, I did not realize you were a companion. What is your name?” Faysal asked in ancient Egyptian. He realized that it meant the heart remained safe, under the protection of the companions.
“Ahmed, of Deir Abd-al-Fu’ad,” the guard replied.
At the name, Faysal celebrated.
Ahmed grinned broadly and placed an arm around Faysal’s shoulders. “Welcome to Luxor.” He swung the strap of his gun over his neck so that it rested at his side and then fiddled with a keyring. He unlocked the wire mesh gate. Ahmed ushered Faysal inside and signaled to another guard who stood opposite the shrine of Tuthmosis III.
Faysal blinked to see yet another man stationed in the interior. Other shadows shifted, hidden in the columns of the peristyle court of Ramsesses II, and his brow furrowed.
“How many of your deir remain, Ahmed? We lost many.” Faysal’s smile fled for a moment.
Ahmed placed a finger to his lips.
Immediately beyond the first pylon was Faysal’s destination. He longed to search the engravings of Luxor Temple, to enter the inner sanctum, the sun court and the birth house, where Akhenaten’s divinity was proclaimed. There the wife of Amenhotep III was confirmed by Thoth to have sired Amun-Re. He pictured Amun placing the ankh to the pharaoh’s lips, delivering the breath of life.
Flanked by papyri bud columns, the statues of a striding Ramesses II and the miniature Nefertari regarded him somberly. The statues’ stone eyes reminded him of the gravity of his task.
Faysal instead turned to the thirteenth-century mosque of Abu el-Haggag to the left of the shrine of Tuthmosis III and just behind the pylon. The mosque rose above the temple floor, built on the site of a Christian monastery long ago constructed on the site of the then buried Luxor Temple.
Luxor was once called Ipt rsyt, meaning “southern sanctuary,” during a period when the metropolis of Luxor was called Thebes. Faysal knew the secret of its location. The early Christians built on the location in order to protect its treasure—the Heart. It resided here at the temple devoted to the royal Ka, the heart of the divine Kingdom ruled by Horus.
“I need access to the mosque, friend.” Faysal hesitated to tell Ahmed what he sought. It was entirely possible that their deir had lost their keeper and with him the location of their relic. Faysal’s orders were to return immediately after recovering the Heart. If he were to tell Ahmed of his goal, Ahmed might not be willing to let him leave without first conveying the news to his high priest, who, Faysal expected, was also dead.
“We were expecting you, Faysal,” Ahmed said, nodding. “A falcon arrived yesterday.”
Ahmed motioned for Faysal to skirt the base of the mosque twenty feet above them. A barred door surrounded by a faintly colored mosaic opened onto the courtyard. Faysal knew where he headed but allowed Ahmed to lead him out of the courtyard and back along its wall to the mosque entry. Its whitewashed steps rose to an Islamic arch and an open door. This solved what Faysal had expected to be his second problem, a locked mosque. He grinned.
Ahmed respected Faysal’s unspoken request for privacy and stepped away from the mosque’s doorway, waving him through and shutting it behind. Inside, the chandeliers, at one time filled with oil but now wired for electricity, burned fiercely, illuminating the interior. The mihrab, a niche in the wall that marked the direction of Mecca, graced the far wall and an ornate minbar stood as an island; its steps rose to a pulpit where the Imam spoke.
Faysal had never been inside this mosque, but he surveyed the surroundings and noted the Luxor Temple capitals incorporated into the architecture. From these markers, he traced several paces to his right until his gaze rested on a portion of the wall that retained hieroglyphics. The wall was precisely opposite the mihrab. Not having heard him enter the mosque, Faysal started when Ahmed shuffled to his side and nodded encouragement. Faysal had hoped the man would lose interest, but Faysal hadn’t the right to ask him to leave.
Faysal strode to face the mihrab and slipped a small mallet from his robe. With an apologetic smile, he struck. The hammer pierced the thick layer of plaster. Fragments scattered into the darkness. Soon a gap large enough for his wiry body cleared. Ahmed stepped forward. With the butt of his gun, he knocked out more of the plaster until the border was framed by stone blocks. Ahmed coughed in the dust. Stale air exhaled from the alcove. Faysal drew a flashlight and probed the darkness with its beam.
“Ahmed, please guard my back. I have been given a task by the last surviving high priests.” Ahmed nodded confirmation, and Faysal relaxed. “I must go alone. I will return, but would like to know if my return has been compromised.”
“I understand, Faysal. It is written.”
Faysal smiled at Ahmed and then crawled through the hole. On the first block, he realized that he traversed a bridge. Beyond the narrow width of the bridge, the interior dropped into darkness. He spat into the depth and listened for the result. A distant splat. The light shone along the stone and illuminated three additional blocks that ended in a black passage. On his hands and knees, he shuffled to a stairwell. With his hand outstretched for balance, he stood, and then descended the swirling path, drilling deep into Luxor’s foundations, below where its modern excavations stopped. His pulse raced, and the whole of him tingled.
He hugged his chest from the cold. His breath misted in the light. At the base of the stairs was a large finished chamber replete with deeply etched hieroglyphs. No depictions graced the walls. In his decaying beam of light, scrollwork lined every surface—the Book of the Dead. On a pedestal in the centre of the room rested a dilapidated boat.
Faysal shook off the chill and strode to the boat. Its oars and rigging had failed in the centuries of its rest and its ocean-faring hull listed. Faysal pulled at the fragile cabin, and its slender boards snapped.
He gasped. The faceted Heart shone in the dim light of his flashlight. By proportion, the surrounding gold of the vertebra was a mere setting for a red diamond the size of Faysal’s fist. He could not begin to imagine the worth of the stone, the rarest color of diamond, and he immediately realized he could not show it to Ahmed.
He checked the room for alternate exits and secreted the Heart in his robes. The light cast a sallow yellow. He needed to leave before it died. He climbed the stairs, and this time walked across the narrow concourse to kneel at the edge of the hole to the mosque.
“Ahmed,” he whispered. Faysal nearly fell off the bridge when the guard’s face appeared in the hole.
“Come, Faysal,” Ahmed hushed.
Faysal exited, concerned by Ahmed’s tone. He toppled onto the marble floor of the mosque. As he tried to stand, Ahmed’s rifle struck his jaw.
Splayed on the ground, he groaned. The rifle barrel hooked into his ribs and turned him over. Faysal stared up into Ahmed’s wicked grin. Other guards exited from surrounding columns.
Faysal recognized the treachery too late. He reached for the Fullness, but Faysal’s powers had always been weak. At best, he could send word of his failure. The thrill of the Heart, which had filled him, leaked away. His jaw throbbed.
“The Heart, friend.” Ahmed laughed. Faysal spat blood and spittle trailed across his chin and chest. Ahmed probed with the gun barrel until it struck the stone. He reached into the pocket of Faysal’s robe, batting away the vain attempts to repel him, and pulled free the gem. It blazed like a torch in the bright light.
“Seth!” Ahmed cheered, and the cry echoed about Luxor Temple.
Faysal struggled to his feet. While Ahmed shouted, Faysal slumped into the alcove of the mihrab, hauled himself back onto the bridge, and wormed into darkness. Faysal’s feet cleared the outer wall of the mosque, when someone yelled. Hands clawed at his ankles, and he kicked backward, rewarded by a grunt. He scrambled forward, careful not to slip over the edge into dark.
He allowed himself to topple over the stairwell’s lip. Gunshots barked in the cavern. A bullet bit into his thigh, and he cried out. Another shot hit his back at such an angle that the bullet flew through the top of his shoulder. Tears streamed from his eyes, and he rolled the first several steps, out of range of the final shots.
For several moments, he remained unmoving. His blood poured down the steps, and he realized his time was short. Stair by stair, useless lights burst into his mind. The pain kept him lucid. He reached the chamber of the Heart.
He fumbled in his pocket and was relieved to find the flashlight. In its mortifying light, he could just make out the words of the Book of the Dead.
Faysal recanted his sins until the glow finally died. Death saw better in the dark. And in the Halls of Ma’at, the feather of justice was weighed against Faysal’s well-intentioned heart.
Chapter Twenty-one
The Shemsu Seth completed their march in silence, the slap of rifles and machine guns slung across backs keeping cadence with the clump of sandaled feet on rock.
The soldiers followed Sam into the desert, but their expressions were too grim, they marched too close, and they were too silent. When they had heard Sam’s orders, they looked from one to the other. No one would be killed and a man was to be captured alive. The Shemsu Seth would obey, but when they shed this duty, Sam would pay.
Trand had handpicked the men that formed Sam’s guard. He had also made a request, drawing her aside before she left the underworld.
“There will be a man, Samiya, a small man. He can wield the Void like a Shemsu Seth.” Trand clutched his injured shoulder. “Bring him back for me. Do your mentor this favor?”
Trand had never asked for anything, and the sheen of light in Trand’s milky eyes had made Sam shiver. She had agreed. To take a captive was a good compromise. Much blood had been spilled already, and she knew of whom he spoke, remembered the power of the Void that shrouded him. Her intent was to retrieve the vertebrae and tablet without further killing. The balance trembled; she sensed its unsteady whirls. If she could keep Trand happy with a toy, she would. And the exchange would help her retain her status within the temple. The man had injured Trand. The balance would accept Trand’s retribution, and Sam’s conscience would be clear. Besides, if Trand didn’t kill him first, maybe she could convince the man to join her as an apprentice. Given enough time, anything was possible; she most of all knew that.
When they neared the deir’s rock ridge, Sam pulled her crossbow from her back and turned to her men. In the light of the gibbous moon, their skin glowed yellow. Sam signaled for silence, though it wasn’t needed.
Past midnight. Only forty-eight hours until her mother’s sacrifice. Sam’s stomach cramped. If she was to return by the full moon, they needed to attack. Worse still was the sense that it didn’t matter, that in his insanity Pharaoh had made his decision. Her mother was just a long lever and Sam a very small rock. The party halted. Sam stood on a ridge overlooking the bowl that held the monastery.
A companion leaned upon the wall near the gate. Their assault against the Temple of Seth had tapped their powers. No other companion graced the walls, but Trand had taught Sam never to assume. Her group of six was outnumbered, the enemy fortified and armed. Security at the train terminals had been tight and she was glad that the caches of weapons prepared for the attacks on the deirs had remained partially stocked.
Sam reached out with her senses. She ran her fingers along the Void like she touched the keys of a piano, but repressed her urge to play. The companion was awake but not reaching to the Fullness. As Sam watched, another brown-robed man broke from the far end of the ridge marking the ascetics’ caves. He stumbled toward the deir. The guard opened the monastery doors and helped him to cover the remaining distance. They passed through into the courtyard, and Sam signaled the Shemsu Seth closer. The troop picked their way down the ridge and gripped their guns tightly as they ran toward the unguarded gate.
David tottered, dizzy with thirst, poison, and power.
Connected. He wanted to test it, but knew he wasn’t in any condition to control the roiling mass. He feared the entangled fate suffered by the companions who had died in the temple. He would wait for Pharaoh. David’s heart pulsed in his cheek, and he rubbed at the right side of his chest to slow its beat.
The deir had been little more than a mile, but in his delirium, his staggering had doubled the distance.
“David.” David turned to Shen and raised his heavy head from where it stared at his feet. He flung his arm around the falconer’s neck. Shen dragged him through the gates and together they lurched into the deir’s courtyard and kitchen.
“Water,” David rasped, his free arm pointing erratically to the pitchers that lined the kitchen shelves. Shen turned to fetch water, leaving David to slump into a chair.
David guzzled from the urn.
“Careful, you’ll be sick if you take too much at once,” the falconer warned.
“Where’s the Osiris?” David asked between swigs.
“Take some bread as well, but slowly.” Shen handed him a round of bread.
“The spine … have you the translation?”
“Yes, it is in the temple.”
Fluid flowed into David’s muscles and blood. The water stilled a headache, and he stood without Shen’s aid. “Thank you, Shen, please return to your post.” He wished to search out Pharaoh’s prize.
A flash of annoyance crossed Shen’s face, but his compassion returned. “I see you’ve been stung. Let me help you to a cell where you can rest.” David took another long draw on the flagon. “Did you touch it, David? Did you sense the Fullness?” Shen asked.
David nodded and Shen’s wrinkles radiated from his eyes and mouth like porcupine quills. Suddenly the smile faded, and he placed a cautionary hand on David’s shoulder, cupping his ear with the other. David opened his mouth to speak, but Shen tightened his grip.
Shen walked to the kitchen entrance and peered through a crack in the door. He rushed back. Stripping two daggers from a loop at his waist, he handed one to David.
“Shemsu Seth,” he hissed.
Shen pulled on David’s elbow and ushered him to the rear of the kitchen.
They wound through a passage into the temple. At first, David wondered why Shen didn’t raise the alarm, but soon it was clear that Shen meant to protect the deir’s pieces of the Osiris, and David’s heart beat faster.
Sam met no resistance. She gathered the Shemsu Hor like a penitentiary guard collected prisoners. Cell to cell, she pulled the companions from their stone berths and shoved them into the yard. The comatose she ordered slung over shoulders of Shemsu Seth. In fifteen minutes, seven companions stood in or were sprawled across the yard beneath the relief of Horus slaying Seth.
One Shemsu Seth had yet to return; the man sent to fetch the gate guard and the injured man. There could be no escape; the soldier stationed at the ridge ensured that.
She strode to the first man in line. The man leaned against the wall and breathed hoarsely. Her black ankh blade dimpled the robe over his heart.
“Who is high priest?” Sam demanded.
Askari grunted, his eyes flint, but their bags and his pallor betraying his fatigue.
“High Priest Abd-al-Aziz,” Sam greeted, knife swinging to Askari.
“High Priest Abd-al-Osiris,” he corrected, stepping forward to lean against the tip of Sam�
��s knife.
She smiled. “Soon there will not be much left to lord over.”
The first arrow struck the companion on Sam’s right. The broad head slid through ribs, split the heart, and pierced the rock behind. He hung against the wall like a robe on a peg. A second later, the companion to her left died, the arrow buried to its fletching. Askari cried out and clutched his head.
Sam’s face reddened, and she turned. Her mind searched each soldier, probing for the killer. But instead of the restrained fury of a Shemsu Seth, an unruly chaos swirled. A man who sheltered in the threshold of the temple drew another arrow to his ear. He released the bowstring. The arrow sped toward Akskari’s chest. In an instant, Sam grounded herself with her wire, drew Void and knocked the arrow spinning beyond the wall of the deir. Askari screeched and knelt in the dust.
Void gripped the man who nocked yet another arrow. Sam tossed a mental lifeline to the man. The other Shemsu Seth simply stood and stared, waiting for orders.
The line tugged. Sam’s mind bobbed, and then the man swam against its tow. Sam reeled him back while she walked closer. He struggled, trapped, unable to fire his weapon. Sam’s jaw dropped. The moon cast a milky finish to the range of welts that sprang from his face where the sun and scorpion had stung. But beneath the mask of swelling, she recognized David Nidaal from Coptic Cairo.
Sam grabbed the bow and severed what remained of the man’s connection to the Void. David dropped to his knees and clutched his robe. His eyes rolled into the back of his head.
Sam signaled two Shemsu Seth to drag David to the other captives and then continued into the temple proper to search for her soldier. Inside, two men, one a groaning companion whose head bled and the second a Shemsu Seth with a blade buried in his chest, sprawled across the threshold to a side chamber. In the darkness, Sam could discern the missing panels and the racked sundiscs. She strode back to the line of companions. Five lived, one injured, and David rested prostrate beyond. Two dead companions balanced the dead Shemsu Seth.
24 Bones Page 15