Heretic of Set

by J. Steven York

If his life had been his own, he might have done so, but it was not. It was a mix of burdens, promises, debts, and lies. Often he had touched the medallion around his neck in remembrance of his father. Now he slammed his fist against it, as though to shatter it and make himself free.

  He succeeded only in causing himself pain. The medallion was, of course, unharmed. He would not be rid of it that easily.

  He might never be rid of it at all.

  He thought back to when Kaman Awi had told him he was a “magical blunt instrument.” It was true. He had power, but little skill, and the price of using that power was a piece of his own soul. He was like a muscular fool slinging a flail on the battlefield: a menace to everyone around him and himself.

  That was not how Anok Wati of the Ravens had fought. It was not how his father had taught him to fight.

  With swords, his strengths were speed, finesse, and misdirection, not power. Why could he not learn to use sorcery as he used a blade? If he could substitute skill for power, he might use less of it and thus avoid some of its ill effects.

  It might be possible, but without teaching, without guidance, he would be like a man groping alone in the dark. He might eventually find what he was looking for, but doubtless he would fall many times before he did. Pray that a bottomless pit did not lie beneath one of those falls.

  As he arrived at the temple gate, the day turned from bad to worse. The guardian officer stationed there recognized him, and told him he was to report to the chambers of Kaman Awi. Grimly, he asked for directions, and the guardian signaled one of his men and instructed him to escort Anok to his destination. He would be denied even the excuse of becoming lost or confused on the way.

  The large oval room was located on the third floor, in a tower situated on a corner of the temple’s inner courtyard. Though it was all one contiguous space, Anok did not see Kaman Awi as he was ushered in. The room was jammed with clutter: books, scrolls, mystic objects of every description, and others stranger still that he took to be instruments for the study of “natural law.”

  Only a few he recognized: a balance scale of the type sometimes used in markets to weigh gold and silver, though larger and of finer craftsmanship, sundials, knotted measuring ropes, notched measuring rods, plumb bobs, cups marked for measuring, and jars of unknown substances that might be related to alchemy.

  Kaman Awi’s lightning jar was there as well, sitting on a table, and Anok was careful to keep his distance from it.

  Instead he picked up a polished cylinder of crystal and held it up, fascinated by the way it distorted anything viewed from it.

  He was surprised when Kaman Awi appeared suddenly from behind a stack of books. “Curious, is it not? I feel there must be some use for its ability to bend the way things are seen, but what that might be has escaped me.”

  Anok quickly and carefully replaced the rod where he’d found it.

  “I don’t mind your curiosity, acolyte. I appreciate it. Though”—he gestured around the room—“in this place it can occasionally be”—he smiled slightly—“hazardous.”

  “I’m sorry, master.”

  “And I told you to call me Kaman Awi.” He walked over and nudged the crystal rod with his fingertip. “Fortunately, you picked a most harmless object to examine. Still, I wonder. A crystal ball bends seeing as well. Could that relate to its ability to see mystically at a distance? I wonder if, at some level, magical law and natural law are intertwined. It’s a subject for consideration, anyway.”

  “Indeed, it sounds interesting—Kaman Awi.”

  “There are other things of interest to me.” His voice turned more serious. “I hear that you have persuaded the blind scholar Sabé to aid you in your studies.”

  There was little point in denying it. “This is true.”

  Kaman Awi’s eyes narrowed. “For as long as I can remember, since I was but a young acolyte, the priests have coveted the old man’s secrets. But he guards them jealously, and many sorcerers of great power vie for his favors. Indeed, even our master Thoth-Amon has on occasion benefited from those few trifles of knowledge the old man has chosen to release, and so we are forbidden to take action against him.”

  Anok listened with concern. “What action would you contemplate?”

  Kaman Awi smiled just a little. “I venture that a few days with our scholars of anatomy would make him eager to share his secrets with us. But alas, Thoth-Amon does not agree, and so we have waited—until now.” He leaned closer. “I don’t know what you did to persuade him, but you have an opportunity. Perhaps he is finally ready to reveal his secrets. Perhaps in his old age, he seeks someone to pass them to.”

  He put his hand on Anok’s forearm, and something about it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

  “You must do whatever it takes to gain the old man’s favor, and whatever you learn from him, you must share at once. With me. Only with me.”

  “As you wish.” He carefully pulled his arm away.

  “Ramsa Aál tells me that you fear the power of the Mark of Set, that you hesitate to use it. Is this true?”

  Anok licked his lips nervously. “There may be some truth to that. Great magic has its price, as you know.”

  “The so-called corruption, and madness. I understand your fear. I do. Madness is an infirmity of that which I value most, the mind. Long have I fought to keep my mind free of madness. Yet know that madness, at least in the long term, can be avoided by many. That you have been able to use great magic so far without madness, this is an encouraging sign.”

  “And what of corruption, master?”

  The corner of Kaman Awi’s mouth twisted up, and his eyes narrowed to slits. “What of it? This is something a sorcerer of Set should not fear. This corruption is nothing but a release from those hobbles that bind the mind of man, from those petty moral concerns meant only for lesser men than we.” He looked at Anok, and the priest’s stare, his eyes glinting darkly deep in his shadowed sockets, gave Anok chills. “Do not fear corruption, Anok Wati. Embrace it. It will set your mind free to do great things. Impossible things.”

  It was then that Anok fully understood that Kaman Awi had gone to the well of corruption and drunk deep and long. Only now did he see his true nature.

  Such a man would not hesitate to kill, torture, or maim in pursuit of his treasured knowledge, and Anok now stood directly between Kaman Awi and something he wanted very, very, badly.

  AS HE LEFT the temple, Anok found the whispering of the Mark of Set maddening. Was this the corruption he feared or the beginnings of madness? He couldn’t be sure.

  So intense was his distress, he found himself standing on a street corner just outside the temple slamming his wrist against the edge of a wall, again and again, until his wrist was bruised and swollen. Only then did the whispering fade to a distant murmur.

  Upon returning to Sabé’s home, Anok contrived to send Teferi and Fallon out to purchase food for them. He wanted to talk with the old scholar alone. He reported his conversation with Kaman Awi and expressed his concern over the twin threats of corruption and madness.

  Sabé listened, then sat carefully in a chair to think. “Well it is that you are concerned about these things. This is the riddle of sorcery, to use it without its destroying the user. Yet sorcerers have their ways. It is why cults such as yours exist.”

  “But the cult exists to worship Set.”

  Sabé chuckled. “Set is real. Most of the gods worshiped by men are real in some form, or so I believe. But what they are is perhaps beyond our understanding. Demons seeking to deceive humans for their own purposes perhaps, or powerful beings fallen from the celestial spheres. Perhaps there are gods. Who am I to say? But of cults and temples, though they may serve the purposes of gods, they are built by men with their own purposes in mind.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “As an acolyte, you have doubtless performed the rituals and chants of power for your masters.”

  “Of course. In my early days as an acolyte,
we did little but.”

  “And as you did, you and your fellows visited some small measure of madness and corruption on yourselves, though you might not have known it. Such power flows to your masters, and it is you, their students, who bear the price.”

  Anok thought about it and realized that it was true, that it explained the strangeness he had felt in himself, and seen in the others, after these ceremonies. “Is that all acolytes are to them, food for their power?”

  “And tell me, who does most of the common sorcery for the priests, those lesser spells needed every day around the temple?”

  He saw what Sabé was getting at. “The acolytes. It’s considered an honor to serve one’s masters thusly and to have one’s abilities judged.”

  “So they would have you believe, but as such, you acolytes are little more than useful slaves to them. A wise sorcerer seeks to possess most powerful magic, and yet, not to use it. He holds those magics in reserve until he has no choice but to use them, or until his purpose requires spells more powerful than his followers are capable of performing.”

  “A powerful sorcerer remains powerful by not using his magic?”

  “No matter how great a warrior he is, a great general does not fight a war with his own sword.”

  “Sorcerers are not generals.”

  “Not precisely, no, but like generals, many have their foot soldiers.”

  Anok frowned. “Then what is a lone sorcerer, without followers or lackeys, to do?”

  “There are other paths for restoration that can forestall the inevitable: rituals, meditation, and the healing of deep sleep, which can restore the mind. Yet sleep becomes difficult for powerful sorcerers, and it is said that some of the most powerful no longer sleep at all.” He studied Anok’s face and seemed to judge that it was time to offer some scrap of hope.

  “You have no followers or lackey from whom to leech power, but you do have friends who may help restore you from its exercise. Choose where you use your magic wisely and hope your friends can bring you back from the edge of the pit.”

  It was Anok’s turn to sigh.

  Sabé smiled grimly. “You see what a difficult path you have put yourself on? With my knowledge, I venture that I could be among the most powerful sorcerers in Kheshatta, but I know too well what the use of that knowledge would do to me. No man exercises the power I hold and remains himself.”

  Sabé’s wrinkled hands tightened into fists, like someone facing a terrible truth. “I value my sanity more than I value power. That is the difference between me and someone like Thoth-Amon. Each time he uses the great powers at his disposal, he risks everything, and he does it with abandon.”

  “That’s all there is, then?”

  Sabé’s lips pressed together into a thin, bloodless, line. “With great magics, there are methods by which the sorcerer can choose their poison, trading madness for corruption, or corruption for madness. Thoth-Amon and his ilk, they embrace corruption as a virtue. You,” he said grimly, “must decide which you will choose.”

  ONCE AGAIN, ANOK’S dreams were troubled.

  He dreamed himself in the courtyard of the temple at Kheshatta, talking with Ramsa Aál and Kaman Awi. Their words made no sense to him, but he was fascinated nonetheless.

  Hearing a commotion, he turned to see Teferi and Fallon being dragged into the center of the courtyard, where a pair of altarlike platforms made of stone awaited them. They were tied to the platforms and called to Anok, but he could barely hear them.

  Then Kaman Awi finally said something he could understand: “Here come the surgeons.”

  A line of priests marched single file from a doorway and proceeded toward his bound friends. They carried a terrifying assortment of instruments, saws on long poles, knives, metal-tipped prods, needle-sharp spikes, all polished and gleaming in the sun.

  Ramsa Aál looked to Kaman Awi. “Do you think they will last long?”

  Kaman Awi nodded. “Days. Their deaths will be long and terrible. Unless . . .” He turned to Anok. “You could kill them, acolyte.”

  Ramsa Aál nodded. “Use the Mark of Set. That is why I gave it to you.”

  Kaman Awi frowned. “He found it. It’s his.”

  “It is, I suppose. It is on his wrist.”

  Anok rubbed at his wrist. “I don’t want it,” he said. “Take it back!”

  Ramsa Aál smiled. “It’s yours now. Oh, look, they’re beginning!”

  Anok turned to see the surgeons closing around his friends.

  “Bring down the lightning,” said Ramsa Aál. “I’d like to see that.”

  Teferi and Fallon began to scream in pain.

  The Mark of Set seemed to come to life on his wrist. The head of it turned and spoke to him. “Let me bring down fire. It will be quick, and the surgeons will die, too!”

  “We’ll all die!” Ramsa Aál smiled broadly. “Yes! Kill us all! End our pain!”

  The screaming grew louder, but somebody said his name in a surprisingly calm tone of voice.

  The ground shook, and he saw a mountain looming over the city, a volcano with fire and smoke belching from its peak.

  “Fire,” said Kaman Awi, clutching at his arm. “Let it be fire!”

  “Anok!” The voice was louder now, and he woke with a start, staring into the darkness. Something glowed with a dim, yellow light, and he looked for the source of it. He realized that the crystal ball on the table behind him was glowing.

  “Anok, are you there?” The voice was coming from the crystal, and he realized that it was Rami.

  He climbed out of bed, reached over to grab the crystal sphere, and sat back down on the blankets. He looked into the crystal and saw the face of the little thief dimly illuminated by a flickering candle. “Rami, I’m here. I was sleeping. You have news for me?”

  “I wondered if you would answer. Talk quietly. I don’t want to be discovered.”

  He immediately wondered where Rami was, but decided he would find out soon enough. “What have you found? Where is Dejal?”

  “He is back in Khemi now. Several weeks ago he led a caravan with about thirty camels and went into the desert. With him were five other acolytes of Set. They had digging tools, supplies for a long stay, and arms. There were many laborers and guardians of Set who traveled with them. Today, they returned to the temple.”

  “Did they bring anything back with them?”

  Rami smiled. “This is the part I knew you would want to hear. They had many heavy bundles, wrapped in cloth, and I could not tell what they were at first. But know I know. They unwrapped their bundles at their temple and began to assemble those parts into a whole.”

  “A whole what, Rami?”

  “They brought back something amazing, the skeleton of a giant snake! It looked petrified, like it was made of stone!”

  Anok blinked in surprise. The bones of Parath? It was Set who supposedly exiled the lost god to the desert. Why would followers of Set bring him back from that place? Then he started to wonder.

  “Rami, how did you learn this? Do you have a spy inside the temple?”

  His grin widened. “I’m a thief. How do you think I found out? I broke into the temple and saw it myself!”

  “Rami,” he said with growing alarm, “where are you now?”

  “Still in the temple, deep in the air shafts, where none can hear, if you’ll just keep your voice down! Do you want me to go back and see what Dejal is doing now?”

  “No! You’re in great danger! Didn’t you see the skeletons?”

  “I saw some bones, yes. It’s a temple of sacrifice. You’d expect to see bones.”

  “How did you think they got in the air shafts, Rami?”

  His expression turned puzzled. “I didn’t think about that.”

  “Rami get out of there! Now!”

  The image shifted, shaking wildly. Anok caught glimpses of Rami’s face, his hands, and the dim outline of the air shaft as he moved along it. Then, abruptly, he stopped.

  “I hear something.”r />
  “What?”

  “A rustling noise ahead of me, like leather rubbing on stone.”

  The fingers of Set! The little albino snakes would eat him alive! “Rami! Turn around. Move away from the sound, as fast as you can! Your life depends on it!”

  The image spun, then began to move again. “If you don’t mind,” Rami’s voice was tinged with fear, “what is it that I’m running from? Not knowing makes just makes it worse.”

  “Small white snakes, thousands of them. They travel together, eat flesh, and they can strip the meat from your bones quicker than a man can finish a hard roll.”

  Rami coughed. “Maybe knowing wasn’t such a good thing after all. If I keep moving like this, I’m going to give myself away, or be forced out into a room where I’ll be discovered.”

  “If that’s what you must do, do it. At least then there’ll be some hope of escape. Perhaps I can talk to the priests through the crystal, come up with some story that will cause them to spare you.”

  Again, the movement stopped.

  “What are you wanting for, Rami? Get going!”

  “I heard them in front of me, Anok! I hear them, and there’s no way out!”

  Anok thought frantically. How could Rami save himself? He was suddenly aware that the Mark of Set was itching. He clawed at it with his fingernails, trying to keep his mind clear. “Which way is the sound louder?”

  In the crystal, he saw Rami look one way, then the other, his eyes wide with fear. “In front of me,” he said.

  Anok put his hand over his father’s medallion, which still hung around his neck. Even through the iron, he could sense the shape of the Scale of Set within. If only he were there, he could use it to command the little snakes away from Rami. But Rami was in Khemi, many days’ travel away. If only he could travel as easily as his words, as easy as these images did.

  “Anok! What should I do!”

  The magically linked crystals somehow served as a conduit for those images, their words. Could they act as a conduit for magic as well?

  “Anok! Help me! I hear them! They’re close!”

  If it were easy, sorcerers would do it all the time. To give one’s minion a crystal through which he could cast one’s spells from afar, it would be a very useful thing. So it was not easy, or he would have heard of it.