Scion of the Serpent Page 21

  Then he realized he had another problem. He had to find the sleeping Dejal without having any idea which chamber was his and without waking anyone else.

  He slipped up to one of the few open doors and peered inside. He carefully took one of the oil lamps off the wall and used it to see inside the dim room. He found an unused sleep chamber. A narrow wooden sleeping bench, little more than a trio of parallel planks pegged together, hung from the wall to his right. A crockery chamber pot was tucked underneath the foot of the bed. A small shrine to Set, a crude wooden table, and a small scribe’s desk with bench were the room’s only other furnishings.

  He hoped it was typical of the sleeping rooms and, if so, Dejal would at least be alone. But how to find him? He replaced the lamp and took a few more steps down the corridor, standing near one of the doors. From inside, Anok heard a raspy snore, and a smile slowly spread across his face.

  Knowing Dejal as long as he had, Anok knew many things about him. Dejal snored. And not just any snore, a nasal whistle that various Ravens had teased him about over the years. As far as Anok knew, Dejal had never grown out of it.

  He slipped down the corridor, pausing at each door. From some there was silence, from others snoring lacking Dejal’s familiar whistle. From one he heard the sounds of a pen scratching across papyrus, punctuated by the tapping of the quill against the side of the inkpot. He was especially careful to move quietly past that door.

  Finally, when he was beginning to wonder if Dejal was there at all, he heard it. He stood outside the door for several minutes, just to be sure. There was no doubt. It was Dejal.

  He sheathed his sword, slipped the dagger from under his belt, and relit his candle from the wall lamp. It would likely be dark in the room, and he had to be sure Dejal would recognize him. Then, with one finger, he carefully lifted the latch on the door. He pulled slightly, testing the hinges. They moved quietly.

  From somewhere around the corner to his right, he heard footsteps. There was no more time for hesitation. He slipped inside, closing the door behind him, hearing the latch bar click softly back into place. He could see Dejal curled on the bench, wrapped in a light blanket against the underground chill, his face toward the wall.

  Anok placed the candleholder lightly on the table and knelt next to the bed. Fortunately Dejal was not a light sleeper. Unfortunately, he often awoke groggy and disoriented, and Anok couldn’t leave to chance what would happen then, even if the former Raven looked favorably on his arrival.

  With one motion he swept Dejal out of bed, hand clamped over his mouth, the edge of his dagger against his throat.

  Dejal flailed, tangled in his blanket, then stopped struggling as he felt the blade tighten against his throat.

  Anok felt Dejal’s pounding pulse, the cold sweat of Dejal’s face on his hand, but he seemed calm enough to listen. “Dejal,” he whispered, “it’s me. Anok Wati.”

  At the name Dejal twitched, and Anok could see his eyes harden over, trying to get a look at his attacker. Anok leaned over his shoulder slightly, face toward the candle so he could be seen.

  Dejal’s body seemed to relax slightly when he recognized Anok.

  “I don’t mean you harm, brother. I just want to talk. Can I trust you to uncover your mouth?”

  Dejal nodded.

  Anok withdrew his hand slightly, leaving it ready to snap back at the slightest sound.

  “What’s the meaning of this, Anok?”

  “You didn’t answer my messages. I changed my mind about joining the cult.”

  “And I gave you your chance. I took your message to Ramsa Aál, the Priest of Acolytes and asked for dispensation for you. But he refused, and even forbade me to send you a message in return.”

  Anok lowered the knife. “Why?”

  “Why? I wasn’t given a reason, though I suspect it is your impure blood. I had thought I might be able to use my family influence to overcome that. If you had entered with my class of acolytes, perhaps it would be different, but petitioning for late entry draws additional scrutiny.”

  “No, I mean why weren’t you allowed to send me a message? Why should they even care?”

  Dejal shrugged. Then he pointed at the sleeping bench. “Can I get up, or are you planning to slice my throat?”

  Anok tucked the dagger back in his belt, while Dejal sat himself back on the edge of the simple bed. He moved the small bench over from the desk and sat on it.

  “You’re an outsider, Anok, and inferior, in the eyes of the cult. Likely they feel I will be contaminated by any contact with you. Set knows what they’d do if they found you here. How did you get in, anyway?”

  Anok heard the click of the latch, but before he could reach for his weapons the door banged open. A man in the robes of a priest stood there, flanked by two guardians of Set brandishing long spears. The point of one of those weapons hovered in front of Anok’s throat, the other over his heart.

  Dejal half stood. “Ramsa Aál! Master, he came uninvited—”

  “Uninvited by you, acolyte. This one is my guest.” He turned to study Anok. “So, I, too, am curious. How exactly did you enter the Great Temple of Set and survive?”

  17

  RAMSA AÁL WAS tall, even for a Stygian, slender yet well muscled, his narrow face distinguished by the ivory-colored skin of the most ancient noble families. His eyes were pale blue and twinkled with the kind of delight one might see in someone greeting an old friend, or in an evil child about to torture a bug. “You should know,” the priest said, “that there are many more guardians waiting outside. If you were to try escaping, you wouldn’t get five paces alive, even with me as a hostage. But that’s not what you came for, is it?”

  Anok rose, slowly, keeping his hands away from his body and his weapons. “I came to beg acceptance into the Cult of Set as an acolyte.”

  “So I have heard. I have read your letters to your friend with great interest.”

  “And yet you forbid him to respond.”

  Dejal glared at him. “Anok! Show respect to the priest!”

  “If I am made an acolyte, I will follow all customs of deference and respect to authority. But until then, I will stand and, if necessary, die as a man.”

  Ramsa Aál smiled slightly. “You’re proud—spirited. I respect that. And so I will answer your question in my fashion. I wanted to see what you would do when your messages were not answered. Despite Dejal’s endorsement, I wondered how strong your desire to join our cult was. Were you worthy of such an honor? Did you want it badly enough?”

  Anok met his gaze without flinching. “And . . . ?”

  “And you have proven not only your desire, but your resourcefulness. It is quite exceptional that you have penetrated this far into the temple.” His tone turned cold. “It is more than exceptional. It is impossible for a simple thief, no matter how resourceful.” He stepped closer to Anok, his hand extended, palm out, as though testing the heat of a flame. He waved it in front of Anok. “You have been near an artifact of mystic power.” He waved his hand some more, finally leaving it hovering over Anok’s heart. “Quite recently. Is that how you escaped our guardians of the darkness?”

  Anok said nothing. Did he know about the Scale of Set? Was Anok’s deception to be exposed this easily?

  Ramsa Aál glanced down, noticing Anok’s bag. He bent and waved his hand over it. Then he picked it up and began to dig around inside. The priest’s eyes went wide, and he pulled out a small object that glinted in the lamplight.

  It was the golden ring Anok had found in the air shafts! Anok realized it must have fallen into the bag when he and Sheriti swept it off the table back at the Nest.

  Ramsa Aál turned it, examining the carving. “The Ring of Lies. One of our elder priests lost it over two years ago.” He looked at Anok. “How did this come into your possession?”

  “I found it in the air shafts high in the temple, among the bones of a thief picked clean by the little snakes.”

  Ramsa Aál laughed. “The Fingers of Set? De
lightful. You saw them, and yet you survived?” He looked again at the ring. “This ring has no power that would save you there. How did you do it, Anok Wati?” Again, he waved his hand in front of Anok. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  “I told them to go away,” said Anok, matter-of-factly.

  “You, an untrained novice, repelled the Fingers of Set by sorcery?” He laughed as though pleased.

  “I told them to go away. They did. Call it what you will.”

  “Dejal said you had promise, but this is beyond that by far.”

  “Then you accept me as an acolyte?”

  The priest smiled slightly. “Perhaps. Tell me, Anok Wati, why do you wish to join our cult? To honor the great god Set? To gain enlightenment?

  Anok hesitated. What did Ramsa Aál expect to hear? He took a deep breath. “As a child, I knew wealth, comfort, and status. My family held power. All that was lost to me. I was orphaned, lost, and suffered the streets of Odji for many years. I wish to have it again.”

  “Comfort? Status?”

  “Power!”

  Ramsa Aál’s smile widened. “Wise is the man who knows what he wants and is not afraid to say it. The Way of Set does indeed offer power, for those worthy, those strong enough, those who serve him well. For those who are not, for those who fail him, there is pain, suffering, and death. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Then kneel, Anok Wati, and accept the blessing of Set.”

  Anok dropped to one knee and bowed his head, as he had seen other acolytes kneel before priests.

  Ramsa Aál’s hand rested on his shoulder. “By the ancient texts and the great serpents that are his embodiment on Earth, you are pledged to serve Set. Say it!”

  “I am pledged to serve Set.”

  The hand grew tighter on Anok’s shoulder, the thin fingers digging painfully into his flesh. “You pledge your life and heart, even to willingly offer your blood as sacrifice on his altar?”

  “I pledge my life, my heart, and my blood.” My lies.

  The fingers, inhumanly strong, grew still tighter, until Anok thought the bones of his shoulder might snap. “You are Set’s instrument! You are Set’s slave! You are Set’s servant!”

  “I am Set’s instrument, his slave, his servant.”

  The priest abruptly yanked his hand back, holding it over his head dramatically. “You are honored, Anok Wati. You are one of us! You are of Set!”

  AS HE WAS ushered away, the one thing that lingered in Anok’s thoughts was the look on Dejal’s face. Obviously this outcome wasn’t what the former Raven had expected, nor even desired.

  Nor was it what Anok had expected either. He’d thought he might have to beg for entry into the cult. In fact, his earlier bravado in facing Ramsa Aál had been intended mainly to make his later groveling seem even more humble. Anok had long ago learned that pride, especially false pride, was a poor negotiating tool. He had placed his life, for the time being, in the hands of the temple, and his posturing should reflect that.

  He was led away by a pair of guardians of Set, but their weapons were not drawn, and they acted more as guides than guards. He was taken beyond the living area, through a large common area decorated with fountains, wall paintings, and statuary glorifying Set, and up a wide, curving stairway to the main level of the temple, then toward the back.

  Anok had some vague idea of where they were from his study of the map, but as he had intended to avoid those areas he had not committed them to memory. They briefly crossed a broad corridor that Anok recognized as a public area of the temple, adjacent to the main ceremonial chamber, then headed toward the back of the building.

  They entered a large room built around a huge rectangular bath set with blue tile. A layer of steam hovered over the water, and the smaller round cleansing pools that surrounded it. An island of rock in the middle of the pool, from which steaming water flowed in a continuous stream, suggested that the temple had been built over a natural hot spring.

  One of the guardians began knocking on a series of doors as they passed. “Wake! Wake! By order of Lord Ramsa Aál, wake!”

  The doors popped open one by one, and beautiful, wide-eyed female faces peered out.

  “Out,” barked the guardian.

  The women filed out, all young and beautiful, and none, he noted, of pure Stygian blood. For a moment, he thought they wore tight-fitting garments of black lace or sheer, patterned, silk, but he quickly realized that they were completely nude. Their bodies, from ankle, to wrist, to neck, were covered in ornately patterned tattoos he had mistaken for clothing. Temple whores.

  The guardian turned and addressed the women. “This outsider has been welcomed as a special servant of Set. Cleanse him and dress him in the robes of an acolyte. Then summon us.”

  The women nodded and bowed their heads, then silently led him into a side chamber, where he was stripped of his clothes, and more to his concern, his weapons and belongings. All were spirited away by one of the whores before he had a chance to object or even guess where they were being taken.

  A woman stepped in on either side of him and each hooked her arms around his. Their skin was exceptionally soft, glossy with a sheen of some oil that smelled of exotic spice. He was led to one of the smaller cleansing pools, then he stepped into the water, warm, but cooled by passage through the larger pool on its way from the hot spring. The two women climbed into the pool on either side of him and began matter-of-factly to wash him.

  Their manner was unashamed, as he would expect of whores, but also strangely practiced and detached. He tried to look into their faces, but they did not return his gaze, and their eyes seem strangely vacant. They moved like trained animals doing a complicated trick, and he came to suspect the women were drugged, enchanted, or both.

  Though the women were attractive, he found their manner disturbing and decidedly unerotic. He settled back and let them do their work without protest—but without much enjoyment either.

  His mind flashed back to his encounter with Ramsa Aál. Why did the priest show such interest in him? Surely it couldn’t be only based on Dejal’s description. And how had he known that Anok had entered the temple or could be found in Dejal’s cell? Anok had left no trace that he was aware of, raised no alarm.

  “Is this what you wished, acolyte?”

  Anok was startled from his thoughts by Ramsa Aál’s voice. He looked up to see the priest standing over him.

  “Your desire for luxury, comfort”—he reached down to one of the whores, and curled a scarlet lock of her hair around his finger before letting it slide free—“the service of obedient slaves. Set offers this, and more, to his most loyal and useful servants. This is but a taste—if you prove worthy of such favor.”

  “I will do my best to serve Set. May I prove worthy.”

  “Let us pray that you will.”

  Anok dared not ask the question he most wanted to ask, why Ramsa Aál was interested in him. Instead, he moved to something less provocative. “How did you know I had entered the temple, or where to find me?”

  Ramsa Aál smiled slyly. “I was summoned by the greater son of Set you encountered in the air shaft.”

  Anok blinked in surprise and disbelief. He had heard tales that the great snakes were intelligent, perhaps as smart as a man, but had never believed it. Still, if the snake had given warning, he might have been observed by unseen eyes as he emerged into the catacombs and followed to Dejal’s cell. “The snake spared me. It wasn’t like the small snakes. It was no doing of mine.”

  The priest tossed back his head and laughed. “It would take a more powerful wizard than you, or even I, to command the great serpents. They speak directly to Set, and are his agents in the mortal world. You were spared because Set himself wills it. You are here because Set wills it. Know it or not”—his lips curled up into a cruel smile—“you have always been his servant.”

  18

  THE FOLLOWING DAYS passed slowly for Anok. He was less than a prisoner but also less
than a free man. He was not allowed to leave the temple, and his weapons and belongings had been taken from him.

  He had not heard from Teferi and presumed his friend had been unable to find anyone to deliver messages. Anok had been observing the Temple guardians and had identified several he thought would be susceptible to bribes. But since his silver had been taken from him along with his other belongings, Anok had nothing to bribe them with.

  Anok could only be patient and hope that increased freedom would eventually be granted. From his chamber, he’d observed that the more advanced acolytes seemed to come and go as they pleased when not performing duties for the priests. Most lived away from the temple, in their own homes or apartments, a situation that would be infinitely preferable to Anok. At most, it appeared that if he could hold on for just a few more months and maintain the favor of Ramsa Aál, the problem might correct itself.

  There were a dozen other novice acolytes in Anok’s group, including Dejal. The others were cold to Anok. They had already undergone weeks of training and initiations that apparently had been so terrible that several of their number had failed to survive. Although they knew of his trial, it did little to allay the inevitable resentment. Clearly, they did not feel it was right that Anok could simply walk in and be placed among them as an equal.

  But he had the endorsement of Ramsa Aál, and their obvious fear of the priest kept their resentment in check. Instead, he was shunned. They would not speak with him unless ordered or some aspect of their training required it.

  Dejal was the sole exception, but he, too, was cool and distant. Anok realized that Dejal had somehow hoped to gather favor with Ramsa Aál by recruiting Anok to the cult. By arriving at the temple on his own, Anok had thwarted that hope. As a result, Dejal was not the ally Anok had hoped for. Still, he was polite, possibly hoping to somehow to exploit the relationship at a later date. Anok had observed that Dejal would do almost anything to advance his status with Ramsa Aál and the other priests.