Scion of the Serpent

by J. Steven York

  It occurred to Anok that the voice was not far from him. He was very far from the voice, at the far end of a dark tunnel.

  Alive? That was good news, he supposed. Who was alive?

  “I see him, Rami. Help me dig him out.”

  Anok wanted to help, too, but he couldn’t seem to find his arms or legs.

  “I found him. You dig, Teferi. I’m dying here.”

  “If you’re going to die anyway, you might as well dig.”

  I’m dying, too, but I still can’t find my arms and legs.

  “Fine, but if I collapse, you’ll have to carry both of us.”

  He seemed to feel something at a great distance. It seemed to be miles away, but something was touching it. Could it be his foot?

  The black tunnel seemed to get longer, the sounds and sensations, such as they were, more distant.

  Until they were gone.

  Instantly they were back, but Anok somehow felt that time had passed during the interval. Perhaps a great deal of time.

  “This bow is heavy. Why can’t you carry it?”

  “Because, you lazy jackal, I’m carrying Anok. It’s most certainly the least you can do.”

  He’s carrying someone with my name. That’s interesting.

  Then the tunnel stretched away to infinity again.

  Time passed.

  When he came back, somebody was coughing, and something seemed to be trying to suck him up into the sky.

  “He threw up is what.”

  “Mercy of Bel, Teferi, what did he eat? It smells like poison.”

  “Those dead spiders we found. I think he had to eat them. It’s a miracle he’s alive. Jangwa watches over him.”

  “Now he’s alive. It’s still a long walk back to camp, and he doesn’t look good.”

  Again darkness.

  He returned to discover his arms and legs were back. Somebody had taken them and abused them mightily. They seemed to serve no function except to cause him pain. Thankfully the hammering in his head, and the cramping of his gut, provided a welcome distraction. It someone hadn’t jammed his throat with broken pottery shards and thorns, he’d register a complaint.

  He seemed to be lying on his back.

  Was he dead?

  He forced his eyes open, a difficult task, since someone seemed to have sewn the lids shut. Someone leaned over him.

  He was dead, almost certainly, and he had been taken to some otherworldly paradise. Only that could explain the beautiful face that smiled down at him.

  “Teferi! He’s awake I think.” The face leaned closer. “Anok, do you hear me?”

  With effort, he blinked. It seemed reply enough. He was tired.

  Another face leaned in next to the first. Male. Skin dark as tanned leather. Somehow familiar. “Anok. We came for you, brother. We found you at the edge of the dunes, half-dead.”

  Before he could think, his cracked lips were trying to form words. What came out was a dry whisper. “Which . . . half?”

  The dark man blinked in surprise, then laughed. “Our brother has returned! Even the forces of death cannot defeat him.”

  The beautiful woman scowled at the dark man, but she was still beautiful. “Don’t speak of death. He’s alive.” She turned back to look down at him.

  Sheriti. Her name is Sheriti.

  She continued, “He’s going to be fine.” She reached down and stroked his hair.

  It made him shiver. He’d forgotten what it was like to feel anything but pain.

  “Fine,” he managed to croak. Then his eyes drifted back to gaze upon the dark man. “Teferi. You were . . . right. I saw . . . gods in the desert.”

  “I was a fool, Anok. You saw visions caused by poison. That’s all.”

  “I know what I saw.” His burning eyelids were heavy. “Sleep now.”

  Sheriti brushed hair. “Sleep,” she said.

  10

  ANOK AWOKE TO the jostling of wagon wheels on cobblestones, and the fragrance of mulberry leaves. He squinted up at a strip of sky framed by colorful awnings and the stone facades of buildings. He heard voices, children playing, merchants hawking their wares, herdsmen coaxing their flocks through the narrow streets.

  He was back in the city.

  Khemi. It seemed like he had been gone a lifetime.

  He managed to turn his head and examine the immediate surroundings. He was in a small, stake-sided wagon, lying in a bed a mulberry leaves. The leaves were doubtless bound for one of the city’s many silkmakers, who would feed them to their silkworms. He could see the driver, a small woman hunched on the narrow seat at the front of the cart, reins to some unseen draft animal held tightly in her wrinkled hands.

  How did I get here?

  A familiar face popped into view, looking over the edge of the little wagon. Rami! Anok tried to talk, but before he could do much more than part his lips, Rami put a finger to his lip to signal for silence. Then drew two fingers over his eyes, as though closing the eyes of a corpse. Anok was glad to oblige.

  He heard other voices nearby, arguing. Familiar voices. A female voice. “Leave him alone! He’s of no use to you.” Sheriti!

  “I’ll be the judge of his worth, scribe. Out of my way!” This one was harder. Familiar, but less so, and less pleasantly so. Wosret, street lord. That couldn’t be good news.

  Then the sound of scuffling.

  Wosret again, “Are you going to try and stop me, Kushite?”

  “No.” It was Teferi. “You should see this with your own eyes.”

  A pause, but a dimming of the light coming through his eyelids suggested that someone was leaning over him. “Set’s fangs, what happened to him?”

  “We’ll ask him,” said Teferi, voice dripping sarcasm, “if he wakes up again. You see now, he’s no use to you, or threat either.”

  Wosret made something like a growl. “As you say, he’s not much better than a side of spoiled meat—at the moment. But I’ll be keeping an eye on him.”

  “Careful,” Teferi’s voice was raised, as though talking to someone walking away from him, “that you don’t get it poked out.” Then he muttered under his breath, and there was silence for a bit.

  “You’re not dying, you know,” Rami’s voice was quiet, and close to his ear, as though he were leaning over the wagon, or perhaps given Rami’s small stature, hanging momentarily over the side.

  “He’s awake?” There was excitement in Sheriti’s voice.

  “He is,” said Rami.

  Sheriti squealed with excitement, and Anok opened his eyes in time to see her leap into the wagon next to him. The whole wagon jolted, and he heard both mule and driver complain in their respective tongues, neither of which he understood. “I should really learn to speak mule,” he said.

  Sheriti beamed down at him, putting her hand gently next to his cheek. “Oh, Anok. I was so worried for you.” She placed her hand on his sweat-covered brow. “But your fever seems to have finally broken.”

  “Broken,” he mumbled, “along with everything else I have.”

  She laughed, and it was like the sound of chimes in an ocean breeze. “It only feels that way. You need rest, and food, and especially water, but you will be fine.”

  For a moment, he thought it might be true. Then he thought of the snake, Parath, and he knew he was not fine at all. But he didn’t say so to avoid troubling Sheriti. After all she and the others had done, it was too early to give them the worrisome news, if at all.

  The streets were crowded now, and bodies passed by close on either side of the cart. He caught sight of two men wearing the robes that marked them as priests of Set. One of them glanced down at him with passing interest, but they moved on by and were lost in the crowd. If the thought of what he had to do sickened him, what would his friends think?

  ANOK WAS RETURNED to the Nest, where, day after day, he grew stronger. At first he took only soup and beer, but soon he was able to consume the more substantial food Sheriti brought him from the kitchen upstairs.

  But wh
ile his body was stronger, his mind seemed slower to heal. He slept through the day, and that sleep rarely went untroubled by disturbing, even terrifying, dreams. Even when awake, he felt drugged, plagued by imaginary sights, sounds, and voices. Once, he pounced from his bed and took up his swords, convinced that one of the pack spiders had somehow followed them and invaded the Nest. Sheriti was eventually able to calm him enough to return him to bed. Only later did he realize his “spider” had been nothing more threatening than a leather-covered footstool.

  Between such spells came moments of heightened, almost stiletto-sharp clarity, which only made the memories of his bizarre behavior and the anticipation of his eventual slide back into madness all the more painful. Equally troubling were the concerned and even fearful looks Sheriti and Teferi gave him, even in his most lucid moments. At least one of them remained at his side, day and night, during his recovery, and he could only imagine what terrors they must have witnessed during his more difficult moments. They spoke to him slowly and carefully, as a patient parent might speak to a slow and excitable child.

  Finally, an entire day passed without Anok lapsing into his waking nightmares, and his patience with his caregivers grew thin. As Sheriti tried to feed him soup, he snatched the bowl and spoon from her and waved her away. “I’m not some helpless babe, woman! I can feed myself!”

  The look of hurt on her face immediately made him regret his words. “Sheriti, I’m grateful for your care, but I’m starting to feel like my old self again. I could do with less care and more company. Please”—he gestured at the footstool next to his bed, which only days before had filled him with abject terror—“sit with me and talk with me as other than a child.”

  She tilted her head and smiled slightly. “Oh, Anok. I’m sorry as well. We’re worried about you so much. I’m glad to see you feeling better, and in my heart, I knew you were. But we’ve seen improvement before only to be disappointed later. I’d barely dared to hope that your mind was clear again.”

  “As clear as it ever was, anyway. Please, Sheriti”—he patted the stool—“sit.”

  She looked doubtful. “You’re sure you’re feeling better?”

  “Nothing is sure. I’ve been through a trial, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be the same again.”

  “Then you found whatever you were looking for out in the desert?”

  “I found . . . something. I’m not ready to speak about it.” As he spoke the words his fingers unconsciously went to his chest. He realized that the medallion was gone, but somehow there was no concern. The medallion was nearby. It was as though he could sense it.

  Sheriti noticed his gesture. She stood, walked to a nearby table, removed the lid from an earthenware jar, and extracted the medallion by its chain. “I kept it safe for you.” She handed him the object and settled back on the stool. “I thought you were going to throw it into the desert.”

  Anok held it by its chain, examining it. He could feel something, something that hadn’t been there before. Had the medallion changed? The Scale of Set that was within? Or had he himself changed during his journey into the desert? He could only be sure that he no longer feared the Scale, no longer wished to be rid of it.

  “That’s part of what I realized out in the sand. This thing is my legacy, and it cannot be denied. If I throw it away without uncovering its secrets, then it will torment me more surely than having it here.”

  She looked unhappy. “Are you sure that’s the right decision? It’s magic, Anok, and you don’t like wizardry any more than I do. Any more than any sane person does.”

  How was he going to tell her what he must do? “A thing sometimes can’t be taken at face value. Not just things, but actions as well. What may appear, at first, to be wrong, even insane, may have its purpose.”

  She seemed to roll the words around in her mind, like someone tasting an unfamiliar wine. “You mean that this trip into the desert, it’s brought you some kind of peace?”

  Seeing the hopeful look in her eyes, he faltered. How could he tell her what he must do? Right now, he couldn’t. But perhaps he could tell another. “Yes, you could say that.” He licked his half-healed lips. “Sheriti, I’d like to speak with Teferi and thank him for coming to find me. Where is he?”

  “He’s taken a room at the Green Lotus Tavern up the street. The way you’ve been crying out in your sleep, there was no way he could rest here.”

  “Then go find him for me, see if he’s awake.”

  She looked doubtful.

  He smiled at her. “I’m much better. I can fend for myself for a handful of minutes. Go.”

  She smiled back. Reluctant though she was to leave him, the prospect actually seemed to please her. Whether it was on account of his improvement, or simply of being relieved of her burdens for a few minutes, he couldn’t be sure. His illness must have been a terrible trial for her.

  Finally, she nodded. “I’ll go find him. I’m sure he’d want me to wake him.”

  Anok watched as she left, then waited a bit more to make sure that she wouldn’t forget something and return. Only then did he remove the hidden stone from the wall behind his bed. He took off the medallion, studying it. Then he put it down on the blankets and painfully climbed to his feet. His legs were stiff from days of bed rest, and he leaned against the walls and furnishings for support as he moved.

  His destination was a cabinet where odd items were kept, mostly smaller household goods cast off from the brothel above, stored in case they should someday become useful. He dug through them until he found what he was looking for, a small iron box with a hinged lid.

  Anok returned to his bed and sat down heavily. He carefully opened the medallion, and extracted the Scale of Set. He was surprised to feel it vibrating in his fingers, almost as though it was trying to ring, as it had previously, in the desert. That was strange. It had never done so before in the Nest, and there were no other magical objects here that he knew of. Had something been introduced in his absence?

  There would be time to puzzle on that later. He carefully placed the Scale within the box and closed the lid, then slid the box into the hidden nook in the wall. He wondered, as he pushed the stone back into place, why he’d waited until Sheriti was gone to hide the Scale. Didn’t he trust her? He pondered. When it comes to the Scale, I trust no one.

  He pondered again. I would trust her with my life. I have done so many times. Is this thing now more precious to me? Or is it the secrets that it may hold? Perhaps he only sought to protect her from the secret and the dangers it entailed. That was a more honorable way of looking at it. He only hoped that it was true.

  The sudden opening of the door startled him. He heard approaching footsteps and immediately leapt for his swords, draped across a nearby bench.

  “Easy,” said a deep, booming, voice.

  “Teferi?” His hand was on the hilt of one of the swords, but he had not drawn it.

  “It’s me, brother,” Teferi answer cautiously, peering around the curtain. “Don’t you know me?”

  Anok laughed and let go the sword. “Of course I know you, old friend.” He wobbled to his feet, feeling at least a fraction of his old strength returning, and embraced Teferi. “Again, it seems, I owe you my life.”

  Sheriti looked around the curtain and smiled to see the two old friends together.

  Teferi took a step back, his face turned serious. “You owe me only passage out of the desert. If it were not for the skilled care of fair Sheriti, I’d have been hauling only your corpse back from the Sea of Sand.”

  “And Rami,” added Sheriti.

  Teferi frowned slightly at the mention of the name. “It was the little rodent who spotted you, true. Of course, I had to bribe him to come search with us.”

  Anok smiled. “I’ll pay you back.”

  Teferi returned the smile. “You certainly will.” He glanced at Sheriti.

  “I told you,” she said.

  “He does seem himself again.”

  “Who else would I be?”
<
br />   “Who indeed?” Teferi raised an eyebrow at Anok. “You have often been someone these past few days. Someone I know not. Somebody whose acquaintance I have no desire to gain. We wondered if ever you would return.”

  Suddenly tired again, Anok sat on the edge of the bed. “Yet here I am, back in the Nest. Back where I was before.”

  Teferi looked concerned. “There was nothing for you in the desert then?”

  Anok did not answer. He looked at Sheriti. “I would speak with Teferi alone.”

  She frowned but did not move.

  “Please,” he said, managing a smile. “It’s man talk. It would neither amuse nor interest you. You’ve spent far too much time here these past days. Go find your mother. Inform her you’re yet still alive. She may be wondering.”

  Sheriti smiled weakly and nodded. “I should do that. The master scribes may not forgive my absence for so long, but I am always welcome in my mother’s arms.” But she moved only hesitantly toward the stairs. He waited until he heard her climb the steps, then turned back to Teferi.

  But it was Teferi who spoke. “I am sorry, brother, sending you on this fool’s quest. Your gods are not my gods. I nearly sent you to your death, and all for nothing.”

  “No, old friend, not for nothing.” He looked away, thinking. He wasn’t sure how much of his experiences—be they fact, vision, or hallucination—he wanted to share. But he had to tell Teferi what he was about to do, and he had to make him believe there was a good reason for it. Moreover, his gut told him that he needed the aid of his old friend, even if he wasn’t sure why. Somehow, he knew that he couldn’t do this alone, and for that, he was going to have to ask his friend to make even more of a sacrifice than Teferi had already made.

  Anok rubbed his forehead, searching for words. “There were gods in the wilderness, Teferi, just as you said, and they have set for me a destiny. But I warn you, you won’t like it any more than I do.” With a grunt, he pushed himself to his feet. This was no announcement to make sitting down. “I am going to join the Cult of Set as an acolyte.”

  Teferi looked at him, expression blank. He blinked. Then he turned to leave. “I will go fetch Sheriti. You are obviously still suffering madness.”