It was a shaken, terrified and desperate man who stumbled into the little temple to the shock of the priests and priestesses who served there. His face and hands were scoured and bloodied by the desert.
Abdul ignored them, prostrating himself before the figure of the Goddess. The priests and priestesses couldn’t help him, only a Goddess could.
They’d lost Mustafa in the desert that first night.
At first Abdul thought it safe to rest and so they’d stopped to set up what camp they could.
The wind had come up. All of them had looked up, knowing the signs in the clouds, in the haze in the sky behind them.
A sandstorm.
They found what shelter they could and hunkered down to weather it out.
Still something sent a shiver down Abdul’s back. He weighed his chances.
Something told him his chances were better in the sandstorm.
As the first rush of blowing sand reached them, he leaped for his camel.
Seeing him, Najib followed.
Mustafa had not.
Even over the sound of the storm they heard him scream in abject terror and then in delirious bliss, a dying gurgle of immense pleasure.
And yes, there was something about the sound of that ecstasy that drew their manhood tight and sent a chill through them. Even as it called to them.
Najib’s eyes had turned white at that cry.
It had been a race then, to see which camel could run or be goaded faster against the fury of the storm.
Once again, Abdul won, his fingers clenched around the figurine of the little priestess as he heard the cry out of the darkness.
Still he couldn’t shake the idea he was still hunted. He could feel it.
Desperate, he raced into the first temple he found and threw himself on mercy of she who ruled there.
All he had to offer was the golden figurine of the priestess.
“Take it,” he said to one of the priests, thrusting it into his hands. “Take it as my offering to her, to Sekhmet.”
The Goddess of War.
Instead the priest looked toward the open door of the temple and his face grew grim and set. As one, he and the others backed away, disappeared into the shadowed depths of the temple.
Nearly weeping with terror, Abdul slowly turned.
Sand swirled through the entrance. Something stepped out of it.
He looked from the figure in his hand to the terrible one who stood in the doorway.
The Guardian of the Tomb.
They were the same.
His cry was first of sheer terror and then of a deep and horrifying ecstasy.
When silence came once again to Sekhmet’s temple, the priests and priestesses emerged.
All that remained of the old thief was a dry and empty husk.
The wind gusted and swept the temple clean.
Heart of the Gods
By
Valerie Douglas
Published by the author as a member of the
Alexandria Publishing Group
Heart of the Gods Copyright © 2010 Valerie Douglas
Cover art by V. J. Douglas
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from author.
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
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Discover other titles by Valerie Douglas
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The Coming Storm
A Convocation of Kings
Not Magic Enough
Setting Boundaries
Servant of the Gods
Romance
Dirty Politics
Directors Cut
Irish Fling
Lucky Charm
Picture Perfect
Nike’s Wings
The Last Resort
Chapter One
Egypt, 17th Year of King Narmer’s Reign, Early Dynasty
Torchlight flickered over the stone walls of the immense cavern, bathing them in a soft golden glow. It danced over the massive figures of the Gods, giving the faces of the statues the appearance of expression. It illuminated as well the faces of the priests and priestesses gathered around the stone plinth that served as an altar. The air was pungent with the scent of burning incense. Chanting echoed throughout the chambers from the barely seen figures of the priests and priestesses standing in the shadows, a sound that rose and fell, a low atonal hum that resonated in the bones.
Mummification had never been intended for use on the living but it was as it must be and none of them could gainsay what was about to happen, not General Khai, nor any of the priests and priestesses of the Gods, nor High Priestess Irisi herself. Who were they to second-guess the will of the Gods?
Irisi could not and would not.
It was as the prophecy had decreed however much they wished to deny it. There was no other way and there was no other to do it, only she, warrior and priestess, could do this, however terrible it was.
Kahotep’s prophecy. He who was Priest of Horus, the falcon-God, whose Eye saw everything.
“A darkness rises, oh Pharaoh, to be unleashed across the world. It comes as a shadow rising from the desert laying waste to all of Egypt, scouring the earth as it passes. Death and destruction follow in its wake, and the cries of the people of the world are terrible. From the north comes a warrior, a crowned and golden servant of the Gods with eyes like the sky, bearing swords in hand to rise up and drive the terrible darkness out of the world, and to stand against it for all time.”
That shadow had risen and the battles had been terrible. Now they had a chance, one chance, to end it. Here.
Servant of the Gods. Irisi was that, she was priestess to both Isis and Sekhmet. To stand against it for all time? What was prisoned in the chamber below would live forever. And so, therefore, must she.
And so, this.
For it to have any chance at success she knew she must accept it without protest, she must give it both her Ba and Ka, her heart and soul, willingly, and so she steeled herself to face it.
Even as that other below, Kamenwati, did not. He screamed in protest, in outrage. He chanted spells against them as Kahotep, together with Awan, High Priest of Osiris and Djeserit, High Priestess of Sekhmet struggled to contain him and his terrible magic.
In the back of Irisi’s mind she chanted the words of the two Books she knew so well, the Book of Life, known only to the priests and priestesses of the temples…and the Book of Emerging in Daytime―what some wrongly named, the Book of the Dead.
Of the priests and priestesses only Rensi, High Priest of Anubis and gentle Nafre, priestess of Hathor, stood with her in the upper chamber. Representatives of their Gods, each had their task. Rensi made certain the rites done here this day were done as they must be to keep Irisi’s soul alive against all the odds and to preserve her body in the hope that someday she might reach the afterlife. Nafre gave comfort to help ease her passage.
And there was Khai, her beloved.
Irisi looked up at him from where she lay on the cold stone of the pedestal where once her sarcophagus would have lain.
Her breath caught as it always did to look at him. He was so beautiful and she loved him so much.
Gleaming black hair streamed in shining waves to his shoulders and framed his strong handsome face, high cheekbones and beautiful long-lashed dark eyes. Deep within those dark brown eyes was the hint of warm gold she knew so well. There was grief in his eyes, the sure knowledge of what they were about to do. She knew what it cost him to stand aside and watch, how little he loved to feel helpless, but for once his strength and courage could avail him nothing. This was for her to do, and her alone.
She longed to touch him once again, ached at the memory of his hands on her, his body against and a part of hers. The thought was bittersweet. In that Kamenwati had succeeded, he’d kept them apart. Surely the Gods wouldn’t deny her this much now? In her heart, in her soul, she felt the sweet benediction that was the blessing of her Goddess, Isis, who, having lost her own beloved Osiris for a time, understood her fear and her sorrow at having to give up her own beloved.
Here, finally for this one time and with these trusted few around them, they could do as they’d wished for so long to do openly.
Kiss.
While Irisi had been Kamenwati’s slave that hadn’t been possible. Or while under his threat. Only that had kept Irisi away, the sure knowledge that Kamenwati would kill Khai had he but known of their love.
Now, at long last, they could.
Khai’s lips touched hers, so warm, the feel of them firm but gentle, a soft caress.
Reaching up, Irisi touched his stern handsome face for one last time even as the sharp pain of the reeds lanced through her wrist, her ankles. She wouldn’t cry out, it wasn’t in her to make him suffer. It was her duty, for Egypt and its people, and the people of all the lands she’d known, that would leave him. She loved the Gods, she loved Egypt, but above all else she loved Khai. The Gods would understand, as did he.
“You are Nife-an-Ankh to me,” she whispered, “and Nomti…I love you, I will always love you. Forever.”
Breath of life and strength he was to her. Her heart.
“Irisi,” he said and lowered his proud head to hers.
Breath of life and strength as she was to him as well.
Khai looked down at his beloved Irisi laid out upon the altar. He wanted to cry out his denial of what was to come but he could not. Leaning over her with one arm braced on the stone he touched her face, looked into her lovely eyes, at the glorious length of her hair as it spilled over the sides. So beautiful, so alive…his life…his breath.
Blood flowed through the reeds, her blood, slowly draining out of her… Her lifeblood, the rich coppery aroma of it filled the air, mixed with the scent of the herbs in the Water of Life as they were drawn into her.
It must be and they both knew it. She was the one who must go and he the one who must stay.
Egypt needed her only surviving General.
Irisi’s successor had already been chosen.
Slowly, he touched his lips to hers, the kiss soft as the priests and priestesses chanted around them. Her hand was warm on his face as their lips found each other. Grief lay heavy on his heart. Duty lay heavier. He couldn’t bear to let her go and yet he couldn’t keep her, however much he wished it. He, too, served the will of the Gods. And he could see no other choice, no other way.
The herbs, the potions, flowed into her, burned in her veins. Irisi fought the pain of it with warm feel of Khai’s lips, so long forbidden, on hers…and with the surge of love that washed through her.
“Irisi,” he whispered. “You are my heart.”
As he was hers but she could no longer speak the words or break the chant that echoed endlessly in the back of her mind. It had taken long months of practice to see the characters of the Book of Emerging into Daytime even as she listened and observed, a skill few achieved and the mark of a priestess.
The stone of the altar was cold and the chill seemed to soak slowly into her flesh.
Around her Irisi could hear the chanting, feel it echo in her bones, and with it sense the minds and voices of the priests and priestesses raised in support of her and of those who fought below, mixed with the drone of the Horn in the chamber beneath them.
It had taken some little time for Irisi to achieve the light trance state necessary to endure what was done, yet still remain aware, so some of the pain and the weakness seeped through to batter at her will. As did the will of the creatures in the darkness of the chamber below―the magic of the Horn and her own will, joined to these others, was all held them there. She must balance them all and she dared not falter.
Her lifeblood seeped away as the embalming fluids flowed in. The natron and herbs bit sharply into her veins. They burned as it went but she turned her thoughts away from that as she turned them away from the other things they did.
Nafre folded her arms across her breast with a hand on each shoulder as others bound her so tightly with lengths of linen Irisi could barely breathe. Her hair was coiled up as the cloth was wrapped around her throat, her mouth and her forehead. Cold fluid brushed across her belly, to be followed by numbness. Something pressed just below her breastbone, there was a sharp sense of invasion as they finished wrapping her body in the last long lengths of linen.
Deliberately, she forced herself to concentrate on the words from the Book.
Warm fluid soaked her from collarbone to feet. It drenched the linen and stung sharply in the cuts they made.
A cry echoed from the darkness below. That, too, fell on the deaf ears of those around her. None here would pity that one. Not after what he’d done.
She bit back her own cries. Fought the sense of being constricted.
Khai…
Remaining still by an act of will she kept her eyes focused on his dark ones, sought the gold within them, the warmth as her own drained away. His will melded to hers, lent her the strength she needed to do this as the weakness grew, until he stepped back as, finally, he must.
Her heart struggled in her chest to draw the sacred herbs, natron and fluids through her veins even as it pumped her blood out. Mixed among the herbs was the blood of the one who lay below so she would be bound to him and he to her.
The last length of linen went across her eyes. The stars disappeared behind the linen to take her down into darkness.
Pain flashed, sharp and sudden within her to leave a sense of absence, a stillness within her.
It would go quickly now and she was grateful for that. She kept her mind locked on the words of the Book. She dared not think, dared not let her mind stray, or all would be lost. She couldn’t allow herself to acknowledge loss. Or grief.
She wished, though, for one last glance at Khai’s face, for one last chance to look into his eyes with their hint of warm gold, even as she remembered that first night he had touched her. He could have taken her, but he hadn’t. Instead, she’d offered herself to him. Her heart ached as her body grew colder.
There was little time. She felt them raise her to carry her swiftly out.
A coughing roar echoed down the tunnel that led outside. They followed that sound down that entry, she knew.
The lions, her lions…
They had been gifts of the Goddess Sekhmet when that Goddess had turned her away, sending her to Isis’s service instead. They would come with her, her lions, to keep her company through her long duty so she wouldn’t be utterly alone. For that, she was grateful.
&n
bsp; Watching, Khai looked away as they tipped her up for he couldn’t watch as her linen wrapped form slid with a splash of the Water of Life into the hollow in the stele they’d carved for her.
He could wish this had been done in sunlight for his Irisi was a creature of light not darkness.
His light…
Irisi.
Grief burned. If he could have gone in her place…
He couldn’t, he was no priest, he had no magic. Nor as Egypt’s only surviving General could he leave his country and its people undefended any more than Irisi could have refused this.
Duty and honor wouldn’t allow it.
He laid a hand against the cold stone, listened as the hammers beat above him with a sound like a heartbeat, listened as they pounded the sealing stone into place with steady rhythmic blows. Sealing the stele with Irisi inside it. What was it like for her there, in the darkness filled with the Water of Life? It would be like drowning.
He willed her the strength and courage to endure. Like the rhythm of her heart, each blow of mallet on stone echoed from the distant walls, whispering back over the grassy hollow.
Above, through the narrow break in the cavern roof the stars glittered coldly.
Desperately Irisi’s lungs sought air, her body fought even as she clung desperately to trance, to the endless mental chanting of the words from the Book of Life, the secret book of the priesthood. She had to hold against her grief and fear, the close space that surrounded her.
What lay below, him and them, battered against her will.
Khai was still here, though, her beloved Khai and these others she loved. Kahotep, Djeserit, Awan, and all the priests and priestesses with whom she’d served over the years. Even poor foresworn Saini in the distant chamber below, seeking his redemption in this act as he watched the last faint light disappear as the doors shut on him, sealing him in among the Dark, among Them…
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