Astarte's Wrath (7 page)

“I don’t know how he managed to slip past me, the sneak,” Lunia says. She shakes her head as she spots Xarion—now unmasked and in his procession finery—seating himself in the litter. “He needs to stop being so stubborn.”

I smile. “Where are Selene and Helios? I don’t see them.” Glancing around, I search for the royal children. I’m sure Little Delphus has stayed with his nurse in the palace, as he’s too young to attend the feasts and processions.

Lunia points to where the twins are being ushered to the litter behind Xarion’s. Theirs is larger than his, because it seats more, but Xarion’s has a cabin with gold-leafed poles and a sheer curtain. He’s a pharaoh.

“This is their first royal outing,” Lunia whispers as we move past the line of guardians to find our places. “And I have to escort them to the palace directly afterward.” Her face pinches into a pout.

“They’re getting older by the day, Lunia,” I assure her. “And at least you enjoyed the feast earlier.”

“I did!” She twirls, her blue eyes glowing. “I may have even procured a secret meeting with a Shythe footman for later this evening.” She winks before sauntering toward her spot to guard over the twins.

I can’t help but roll my eyes as I find my station beside Xarion’s litter. Lunia is the female version of Phoenix, and she may even be worse. As if thinking of him can will him into existence, Phoenix takes his place opposite Lunia. He holds a spear at his side, its base flat against the granite street. Turning his head slightly, he tosses me a knowing smile.

I laugh and match his smug smile, but am impressed he sobered and escaped his mistresses. I face forward.

Surprisingly, I realize Lunia didn’t mention the Leymak encounter. She must have heard of it by now, as she’s always in the palace guarding the queen’s children. I’ll speak to her once I’m back at the palace. I’m curious if she feels the same as Phoenix. Their opinions are as important to me as Xarion’s. I need to speak with them on what the sorcerer said, too. I can’t be the only one to question our creator.

When the horn sounds, the bearers lift the carrying poles of the litters, and we walk. The Beta District glows, hanging lanterns and fires lighting the violet sky. Along the sides of the avenue, nobles and citizens and guardians stretch the length, all cheering and whooping for the royal family. Some climb date palms to get a better view, while others are seated on the flat rooftops.

The wild scent of perfumed flowers fills the air as white and red petals are tossed. They flutter, glittering as they catch the firelight before raining down. As the citizens’ praise rises, it’s difficult to imagine that I fought against a nearly indestructible enemy only hours before.

Peeking over at Xarion, I watch him wave with one hand, holding the crook and flail in his other. His golden pectoral glimmers against his bronze chest, the lapis lazuli and emeralds set in the collar catching the light. He wears the shendyt of a pharaoh wrapped around his waist, yet the red cape of the Romans to honor his late father; Julius Caesar. In simple, he’s beautiful.

Above, the Goddess Isis looks down on us from her marble dais, her sculpted stone illuminated with soft amber lighting. The statue reminds me that Xarion and his family are protected by the immortal ones. I look ahead, confident we’ll defeat the Leymak threat.

Egypt will stand against any enemy—human or divine. And the Romans are only human.

My head pounds. I
squint and curse myself for giving in to the celebrating. Fighting my way out of my coverlet, I touch my toes to the chilled floor and push myself off the bed. I don’t even remember coming back to the palace last night.
How did I get to my room?

I swear to never get drunk again.

After rinsing off in the water basin, I towel dry and lift my face toward the sea breeze drifting in through the open windows. A loud
thud
echoes from the courtyard outside, and I rush to the balcony. Xarion stands below, a bow outstretched in one hand, his other drawn back after loosing an arrow into a target.

“Why, Xarion . . .?” I shake my head, lowering my forehead into my palm.

I hear his deep chuckle. “Get dressed! We have a lot of work today, guardian.”

Cracking an eye open, I note he’s discarded his party attire from last night and has since donned his embroidered city robes. “There’s no way you’d go back to your chambers till afternoon, is there?” He shakes his head, a smile pulling the corners of his mouth up. “Of course not. I’ll be right down, Your Highness.”

Honestly, if I were any other guardian, I’d have my head for sleeping in and allowing the pharaoh to roam off alone. But this is Xarion. I’m surprised he’s here keeping close to me instead of off trying to fight Octavian’s legions on his own. I think practicing his weaponry in my part of the courtyard is punishment enough for my negligence, anyway. At least my head agrees as he releases another arrow and it
thunks
home, sending a surge of pain splintering against my throbbing temples.

I rub my head and disappear into my chamber to get ready for my very long day.

The morning sun shines
down on the city. Alexandria is already awake and alive with movement. Xarion climbs out of the barge first and extends his hand. I take it, remembering the feel of his soft skin on my thigh. A wave of heat washes over me.

Pulling my hand from his, I say, “Have you made an attempt to speak to Fadil?”

“No. He’s been in meditation. Though he did present a request to the Council to have all likenesses of Serapis removed from the Serapeum until the war ends.” He squints as he looks over the palace district. “He’s a fool. I don’t fear the Leymak invading, if only because Octavian wants me to come to him before he’ll order an attack on Alexandria. He wants me to openly admit that Caesar is not my father so he can rebuke me publically for my mother’s lie. A waste of time that’d be anyway. He’s only the adopted son, and has no real claim to the throne. Although, Rome will accept him before they accept me.”

I touch his sun-warmed shoulder, my chest heavy for his burden. “You are Caesar’s son, Xarion. Octavian is only jealous—he has no blood ties. All this will be settled when the queen defeats him and brings home the victory.”

He nods. “She will, and then my true battle will begin.” I squint, and he laughs. “Oh, Mother is never defeated, be assured. I’m in for it when she returns with whoever she has in mind for me to marry. That is the battle I’m dreading.” He grasps my hand before taking off toward the Library. “Come.”

As we pass under the striped awning, scribes bow to Xarion and offer to wash his feet with rose-perfumed water. He waves them off, and we continue through the lotus columns that reach past the entrance. Scholars dip their heads to the pharaoh, and he acknowledges them. I blink, my eyes slowly adjusting to the dim lighting after being in the bright Alexandrian sun.

The scent of papyrus fills the airless entryway, the smell of ancient and recently created documents—musty and new. The smell of the Library. Oil lamps hang from the tall ceiling, their firelight spilling over the floor. Voices echo against the stone walls; lectures being taught. Clanking and grinding, the sound of automata, bounces from the far rooms where the scientists work with the Narcos’ Flame to build steam-powered devices.

We make our way to the rows of stacked scrolls that cover every inch of the Great Library. Every tome, every codex in the known world is here. There is not a vessel that docks in the harbor that goes unsearched by the scholars. Every written word is handed over and made into a copy before returned.

Once we reach the Egyptian scrolls, Xarion chooses a desk in the corner where we can work undisturbed. “Start in the sorcerers’ tomes, and I’ll work my way through the pharaohs’ diaries.”

We both wash our hands and towel them off, so that the oils from our skin will affect the papyrus as little as possible. I take down five scrolls and one large tome, then anchor the first scroll with weights against the desk, preventing the corners from curling in as I read.

For hours I pour over old texts, hunting the ancient ways of the sorcerers. I dig deeper than the common knowledge of how Pharaoh Ahmose I ordered the creation of the first Kythan, and come to a section that describes in detail his bidding for the sorcerers to construct a powerful army to rival his enemies, the Hyksos.

Considered invaders, the Hyksos ruled over Lower Egypt, but were not supported by the majority of the people, even after they took Set as their praised deity. Having learned this much as a child, I gloss over the details of their reign, and finally find what I’m seeking.

Five of the most powerful sorcerers gathered around a sacred amulet to perform a creation ritual of the gods. Amun-Ra—self-created, and thought to be the creator of other gods—held the power of creation in his hand: his
was
scepter.

I’ve seen its likeness many times, as the Kythan are likened to Set. The head of the Set animal tops a long staff with a forked tail at its base. But how the sorcerers came to possess the
was
scepter, I can’t fathom. I read on, immersed.

The sorcerers performed the ritual on Egyptian rebels of the war, infusing their bodies with the
Ka
of Set; his essence. For days, the prisoners suffered, enduring constant pain throughout their first shift, madness at having their
Ren
—identities—stripped away, and in severe cases, death. Not only a physical death, but once the shift took effect, the
Akh
died a permanent death, never reaching the underworld; never being able to reconnect with its
Ba
and
Ka
.

Bowing my head, I push back from the tome, my heart heavy. I can’t imagine anyone enduring that. Not even my enemies. Though our first shift—our Change—is similar to this account, it’s not as extreme. I underwent headaches, sweating, body aches, fierce nightmares, and then my power came. After I shifted the first time, I never again suffered any discomfort. But now I wonder if the pain we endure during our Change is linked to the first shift of these ancient people, like a terrible, haunting echo.

And though I’m a slave, I will still have the proper funeral rites performed over me so that I may enter the afterlife. My
Ka
and
Ba
will again meet with my
Akh
in the underworld. I will not die a final death. I will not roam the world an
Akh
; a wraith.

These people were thoroughly removed—wiped from the history of the world—in order to make way for new life. The Kythan.

Forcing myself to continue, I begin again. Once the first Kythan transformation was complete, the strongest army ever known to man was commanded into Lower Egypt to expel the Hyksos. I envision the Set-worshiping Hyksos spying numerous recreations of their beloved god descending upon them. What must they have thought? That they had wronged Set in some way? Though it’s warped, the military-trained side of me can appreciate the genius of this tactic. Using the likeness of a most adored god to wreak havoc on one’s enemies.

After the Hyksos were defeated, Egypt and all of the pharaohs to follow praised the Kythan. Set became one of the most honored gods until the Persian overthrow that led to his demoralization, and thereafter, the Kythan’s . . . where we became nothing but slaves to the pharaohs. All of Egypt cursed the god of foreigners. And that is our history.

From greatness to slavery.

Pushing haunting thoughts of my ancestry away, I conduct a search of all recovered artifacts of Set, and come across a history where I lose myself in research.

“My eyes feel like they’re going to weep blood,” Xarion whispers. My head snaps up as he settles on the stool beside me. “Have you found anything—anything that would explain how Octavian accomplished this?”

He rubs his thumb down the crease between my eyes, and I sigh, batting his hand away. He laughs. “There was some artifact, a macehead that was recovered centuries ago that depicts Set,” I begin, purposely omitting the cruel details of our making, and giving him the clipped version of my new discoveries. “It’s the oldest relic known of the god, and was stolen from King Scorpion’s tomb.” His brows shoot up, and I shrug. “It supposedly held the power of Set, Seth”—I correct in Greek, knowing he’s angered enough over Fadil’s words—“and so, yes. I assume if Octavian found someone who knew the old magics, then another race of Kythan could be made from such an amulet—I mean, they have been.”