Anok’s eyes strained into the darkness and could just make out a stone archway flanked by columns, painted with murals of god figures.
The officer looked unhappy, watching as the platform was lifted out of the chamber, blocking most of the light save a small circle on the water of the cistern. “Should we not wait for reinforcements, master?”
“No! There may be escape tunnels. At the very least, they may attempt to hide that which we came here to seek.”
Several of the soldiers produced bags from which they removed smooth, fist-sized, white crystals, Jewels of the Moon. Each man with a bag made a small cut on his arm with his knife, and touched the jewels, one by one to the blood. As he did, each crystal flared into a cool, diffuse light, like the light of the moon, and he handed it to one of his companions.
The acolyte Anok had been studying earlier removed his own crystal from his pocket and casually rubbed it across the trickle of blood on his upper lip. As it began to glow, Anok could see the irises of his eyes, which were alarmingly turning yellow, the pupils narrowing into vertical slits.
Ramsa Aál glanced at the acolyte for a moment before turning away. He chuckled. “The Jewel of the Moon was discovered by Ibis worshipers. Now we use these to hunt them down and destroy them.”
They made their way past the columns, ever watchful for traps. In the light of their jewels, Anok looked up at the columns as they passed. On one side was Ibis, pale, wearing the cusp of the moon as his crown, and on the other, Bastet, a lesser goddess of cats and of the new moon, who some believed was Ibis’s wife. Her skin was as dark as Ibis’s was light, and her features were those of a great cat with green eyes.
Through the portal, they encountered a wall and turned left, descending a stairway into a narrow, high-ceilinged hall.
Anok was immediately suspicious. It was curiously unadorned for a place guarded by such a grand portal. It was also strangely warm, and they could smell wood or charcoal burning.
The floor was black and strangely slick. Anok scratched it with the tip of one of his swords, and the corroded patina came away, revealing a gleam of white metal beneath.
He shouted a warning, even as he tried to recall the spell of frozen death Sabé had once related to him from his ancient tablets.
There was a rumble, and a huge clang of metal as something large fell. From a large slot above the door at the far end of the hall, a gushing wave of silver liquid rushed at them.
Anok was already reciting the spell, giving the Mark of Set full release to draw on its powers. The wave swept past the soldier at the front of the column. He screamed as the stuff came up around his waist, just as Anok whispered the last word of the ancient spell.
The air seemed to turn to ice, the walls of the tunnel covered with a glittering skin of frost. The wave of lead slowed like thick syrup, then stopped. The trapped soldier was, mercifully, frozen as well, a white statue, horror still visible on his rigid features.
Anok looked down. The molten metal had come within a single pace of his sandaled feet. He reeled from the power of the ancient spell, suddenly dizzy.
Ramsa Aál stepped up next to Anok, holding his arm so he did not fall.
Anok took a deep breath, composed himself, and shrugged off the priest’s support. “I am fine.”
“I did not know that prophecy was among your gifts, my student.”
It was no such thing, but he found he rather enjoyed the pride in Ramsa Aál’s voice and did not contradict him.
The priest led them back up the stairs. “This is a false passage. I understand the wrongness of it now.”
They reached the top of the stairs in time to meet the next wave of soldiers, and waited for the third, who arrived soon after.
As they waited, Ramsa Aál studied the blank wall just inside the portal, running his hands over the stone. “This is a false wall,” he announced. “Acolytes, a spell of disruption!”
The acolyte with the nosebleed gestured at the wall, then gasped as though a knife had been stuck between his ribs. He shuddered once and fell to the floor, spasming in agony. A red froth formed around his mouth, until he shuddered one last time and lay still, his open, unseeing eyes like those of a serpent.
Ramsa Aál sighed, watching as the second acolyte crawled into the corner, sobbing and babbling in fear. The priest looked at the closest soldier and ordered, “Kill him.”
The guardian stepped up to the acolyte, pulled back his head, and in one, swift motion, snapped his neck.
Anok looked at the wall. “Allow me, master.”
He drew back his hands, then threw them forward at the wall, feeling the power wash over him like a whirlwind. Masonry cracked, and blocks of stone began to fly through the air.
He had done this before, at the Tomb of the Lost King, but he was more practiced now. It was easier, almost joyful, as the stones ripped away under the force of his will, swooping through the air with the grace of playful birds, only to stack themselves neatly against the sidewalls of the passage ahead.
The found themselves looking into a great chamber of worship, with low, marble prayer benches before which the worshipers could kneel, and a great altar, flanked by flaming brass braziers and topped by a massive gold statue of Ibis, holding the moon overhead in his open hand.
Then Anok noticed one other thing: a golden-haired woman dressed in pale blue silk, who cowered against the base of the altar, caught by surprise. “There!” he shouted. “A priestess.”
“Capture her! I need her unharmed!”
The soldiers fanned out, running up the middle and sides of the chamber. She tried to elude them, and was halfway into a hidden doorway behind the altar when one of guardians grabbed her and pulled her back. As he did, the door swung shut. Closing with a click, it vanished into the seemingly seamless wall.
Ramsa Aál ran up to the door, swept his hands over the smooth wall, then slammed his fist against it in frustration. He turned to the priestess. “How does this open?”
She struggled vainly against the two guards holding her arms. Her hair was ironically the color of sunlight, and fell in curls around her shoulders. Anok judged her to be older than he by a number of years, but still very beautiful. She wore a silver crest of the moon around her slender neck and a thin band of silver around her forehead. Though he had never seen her before, there was something strangely familiar about her face.
She glared at them, fire in her eyes. “I will never tell you!”
“Where are the others?”
“Long gone, escaping through caves that you will never find. Only the hired soldiers were left behind, and I, to protect the temple should you survive.”
Ramsa Aál laughed. “One priestess to protect against an army? Are the worshipers of Ibis fools as well?”
She scowled. “I would have prevailed, if not for”—she glared at Anok—“his foul sorcery!”
Ramsa Aál laughed again. “But you did not prevail!” He leaned closer, taking her chin in his hand, forcing her face up so he could look into her eyes. “Now, where is the Scale of Set?”
She looked uneasy but did not shy from his gaze. “I know not of what you speak. Nothing with the taint of Set would ever be kept here!”
“Oh, you know. Some call them the Golden Scales.” He reached under his robe, pulling out the chain to show her the medallion hanging there.
She gasped as she saw it.
“Oh.” He laughed. “You know. Now tell me!”
“Never!”
Ramsa Aál licked his lips. “I has been too long since I enjoyed sacrificed a beautiful woman to Set—by slow torture.”
He glanced up at the platform over their heads and the stairways to either side leading to the top. He looked back at her and smiled. “How would you like to be tortured to death on the altar of your own, false god?”
She growled and tried unsuccessfully to tear herself from the soldier’s grasp.
“Take her,” said Ramsa Aál, and they began to drag her up the stairs, as the pri
est drew up his ceremonial dagger and held it up, admiring how the flames reflected from its polished blade.
Anok felt his heart quicken in anticipation of the sacrifice.
Ramsa Aál walked past him and began to climb the stairs.
Follow! Observe the sacrifice! Taste the blood! No!
The voices in his head were not his own. He had let the Mark of Set free of its cage, and now rather than his controlling it, it controlled him.
He heard the struggles above, as the priestess was drawn out on the altar.
Blood! Sweet blood!
No! Stop it! This is wrong!
In his mind, he flashed on the image of the priestess, as Ramsa Aál had lifted her face up and looked into her—
Eyes! His blood suddenly felt as cold as the spell of the frozen death.
He sought out the Band of Neska with his mind, sought its firm purchase, and with one, supreme, effort, shoved the Mark of Set out of his mind, screaming, back into its dark hiding place.
Eyes! Those eyes! His father’s eyes! His sister’s eyes!
He had found her, and any moment now, Ramsa Aál would begin flaying the skin from her flesh and the living flesh from her bones!
18
FRANTICALLY, ANOK TRIED to think of some way to save his sister. Certainly nothing he could say or do would dissuade Ramsa Aál. The only thing that would defer him would be to give him the thing he wanted most.
Briefly he flirted with the idea of presenting his own Scale of Set, announcing that he had “found it” somewhere. But it was possible Ramsa Aál’s mystic senses could identify the three seemingly identical Scales individually. Or perhaps this was somehow simply a plan to get him to turn over his own hidden Scale. In any case, once Ramsa Aál had his Scale, Anok lost all leverage against the priest.
It was even possible Ramsa Aál would still torture her, looking for information on the location of the third scale. Or perhaps he would then feel free to kill her, and Anok would need to strike a deal.
As those thoughts rushed through his head, his eye fell on the front of the altar, where a decorative row of circular, silver medallions were set into the stone, representing the phases of the moon. At the center of the altar, below the rest, a lone circle of humble iron appeared, slightly larger than the rest.
He rushed over to examine it. It was identical to his father’s medallion, where his own Scale of Set lay hidden. He pressed his palm against it, twisted, and felt it turn.
It had taken him years to discover accidentally the pattern of precise left and right twists that opened the medallion’s hidden latch, but he had spent countless idle hours examining the medallion, opening and closing it.
Now he applied this pattern to the altar’s seal, with practiced skill.
He heard his sister cry in pain.
There was a click, and a hidden panel cut into stone fell open. Inside, a cluttered assortment of religious objects, obviously hidden in haste, and among them, a glitter of gold!
Like Ramsa Aál’s, this Scale hung from a chain of gold. He snatched it, held it over his head in triumph. “Master, I have found it!”
Ramsa Aál instantly appeared, looking down over the edge of the altar, his eyes wide, the tip of his dagger dripping blood. He smiled as he looked down. “Well done, acolyte! You have found a vital key to our greatest plan!”
He vanished, and Anok could hear him climbing to his feet, walking down the stair on the far side of the altar. As he did, Anok looked at the other objects in the compartment. There were small fertility idols, jewelry representing symbols of Ibis, and the phases of the moon, scrolls that were obviously holy texts, and—a simple medallion of iron! Anok snatched up the iron medallion and shoved it in his shoulder bag just a moment before Ramsa Aál appeared.
Anok glanced around. There were many guardians about, but most of them had their attention focused on the top of the altar. If any were watching him, they would have no context to understand the significance of the small theft. If it was not silver or gold or crusted in gems, it would appear to them to be worthless.
Ramsa Aál stepped up to him and took the Scale of Set. He seemed not to notice Anok’s deception, his interest only in the Scale itself. He held it up to the light, then looked over at Anok, as though suddenly noticing that he was there, a strange, intoxicated look in his eyes.
“My pupil, we are very, very close to the dawn of a new age. You cannot imagine the power that will soon be ours.” He looked up and shouted to the two guardians on top of the altar. “Bring down the priestess. I now have another purpose for her.”
She was led down the stairs, her right hand bleeding slightly. Thankfully, he had just only begun!
Ramsa Aál stepped up to her and examined the moon amulet around her neck. “A High Priestess of Ibis will be very useful in our plans.
TRUE TO HIS sister’s word, hours of searching by the guardians found none of the escape tunnels, only several more death traps. The latter were found in the most unpleasant way possible, and eventually Ramsa Aál was forced to call off the search.
“Doubtless,” he said, “they are long gone, into the desert, or to caves in the hill. Still, we can ensure they never return to this place again.”
After stripping the temple of any valuables and desecrating all its relics, statues, and shrines, Ramsa Aál had all the water bags and barrels filled. Then the corpses and dead animals were gathered and thrown down the well, fouling the waters.
Finally, every loose item that could be taken from the town, every box, barrel, awning, stick of furniture, and loose board was thrown down after them, doused with lamp oil, and set afire.
Only a few of the better buildings near the center of town were spared. These became the temporary quarters of the occupying force. As darkness fell, the surviving guardians gathered around the well to celebrate with plundered food and drink, and to sing grim songs of war for the dead.
Anok took advantage of the time to slip away from Ramsa Aál and the surviving acolytes and enter the house where his sister was being held. He found a pair of guards watching the windowless storage room where she was imprisoned, unhappy to be missing the festivities.
As he entered, he produced two jugs of wine he had pilfered from the gathering at the well. “I wish to speak with the prisoner alone. Enjoy your wine and wait outside. I will watch her, and in any case, she will not be able to get past you.”
The guardians looked doubtful. “You doubt my authority? I am Kamanwati, the fist of Ramsa Aál!” He narrowed his eyes. “Would you rather have mouths full of wine, or your tongues turned to sand?”
Their eyes went wide, and their manner immediately became apologetic. “Of course, my lord! We appreciate the gift, and will wait outside until you summon us!”
He waited until they were outside to go to the door of the makeshift prison. He hesitated, feeling a strange tightness in his chest. That he was about to be reunited with his lost sister was only part of the reason. She was a symbol of his quest for answers and of his lost past. She might tell him even more, but for the moment she brought only questions.
Parath claimed that he had no sister, and at last he knew, with complete certainty, that the god’s statement was false. Parath might have lied, but it seemed somehow that he simply did not know. How could that be? Had Anok’s father hidden her existence from the god he served, and if so, why? Or was this only the beginning of the lost god’s deception?
Steeling his resolve, he knocked before unlocking the door and looking cautiously inside. The prisoner had at least been provided with a lamp and cot, on which his sister—how strange that word suddenly seemed—sat.
She looked up at him, her eyes filled with piercing hatred.
He could hardly blame her for that. As for himself, he felt—disappointed. What had expected when he finally found his sister? That she could greet him lovingly, throwing her arms around her long-lost sibling?
No, it wasn’t about how she was reacting. It was about him. He had expecte
d—something. A sense of connection. A sense of fulfillment—completion.
But there was none of that.
She was just a stranger, with every reason to despise him. If he turned his back on her, she might kill him, never knowing the connection between them.
Yet he could not help but feel sympathy for her. Her blue silk robes were dirty and torn, spattered with blood in places. Her most holy place had been invaded, pillaged, defiled, and ruined. And the Scale of Set, the object she had stayed behind to protect, had been taken by her most bitter enemy.
How must she feel now, and what could he possibly say or do to ease that?
He reached into his bag and took out a cloth-wrapped bundle. “I brought you food. Perhaps they have given you something, but this is doubtless better.” He reached into his bag again and took out a corked bottle. “I also have water, among the last from your well, I fear.”
He noticed that she still clutched her injured hand. He put down the bottle, looked down at his own dirtied robes, and found a relatively clean spot near the hem, from which he tore a strip of cloth.
He uncorked the bottle, put one end over the opening, and briefly turned it over to wet the cloth. He stepped forward and pointed at her hand. “Let me see that.”
She frowned, clearly confused and puzzled, but let him take the hand with only a little resistance. He dabbed away the blood, and examined the wound. It was a shallow cut across the palm, intended to cause pain rather than damage. “It is not serious,” he said. “The priest was stopped in time. You have no idea what he would have done to you.”
She frowned. “I have every idea.” She held up the palm for him to see. “The first step of torture is to show the victim their own blood. The next is to cause pain. The next is to cause agony. The next is to destroy, as slowly as possible, their body, their mind, their dignity, and every shred of hope. I have seen what the worshipers of Set do to my people!”
He licked his dry lips and did not meet her eyes. Instead, he gently took her hand again and used the strip of cloth to bind her wound.
The Venom of Luxur Page 17