Silk Over Razor Blades (28 page)

Kazemde’s lips parted. His eyes
widened. ‘No one else has ever asked that question.’

‘
Will I?’

‘
You’ll be as much yourself as you
ever have been. With power comes freedom; nothing will stop you
being your true self. Drink. Or else return to the city and face
certain death.’

Saar closed his eyes. Parting his lips,
he tipped the bowl against his mouth and poured the foul-smelling
fluid into his body.

It tasted bitter. Cold. Rotten. Sickly.
Saar thought of many words to describe the taste of that foul black
liquid, but couldn’t settle on a single one. The thick substance
clung to his lips and tongue, forcing him to swallow over and over
to be rid of it. When he did empty his mouth, the taste
lingered.

Saar returned the bowl to the altar.
After wiping his mouth, he put his hands on his hips and
waited.

‘
I feel nothing,’ he said after a
pause. ‘No strength, no wonderful power.’

Kazemde backed up enough to put the
altar between them. The red in his eyes spread across the whites
like ink.

‘
You lack patience. Power will come,
just wait. Believe.’

‘
I believe,’ he snarled. ‘I believe
your fine words and grand promises have brought me to my death. I
must return to the city. I must—’ a gasp choked off his words.
Violent shudders rippled through his body.

Saar fell to his knees, gripping his
stomach. The muscles pulled inward, a frantic contraction he could
see beneath the skin, like pulling sheets of cloth through a loop.
His throat burned. The black liquid scorched a path to his gut
where it coiled like a fiery beast seeking refuge.

‘
What have you done to me?’

A smile touched those thin, bloodless
lips. ‘I? I forced nothing on you.’

‘
The pain . . .’ Back bowing, head
dropping low, Saar opened his mouth and vomited; a black torrent of
thick liquid that smoked when it touched the ground. With just the
presence of mind to keep away, he saw Kazemde slip around the altar
and crouch beside him.

‘
Poison.’ Breathing hurt. The air,
once so warm and soothing on his skin now seared his throat like
burning oil.

‘
Blood is a potent gift. Not many
have the strength to accept it, no matter the desire. Ramesses
couldn’t.’

‘
Ramesses was a coward. Why would he
want the blood of Horus?’

Kazemde cackled, showing off his yellow
teeth. ‘Horus? I didn’t say Horus.’

Saar stared into those crimson eyes.
Though he fought it, his lips trembled. ‘You did.’ Sweat beaded on
his brow and trickled down the side of his face. More ran down his
back. ‘The blood of—’

‘
I told you Set collected blood from
the field of battle where he and Horus fought. Not once did I say
Horus’ blood.’ Another cackle of laughter, matched by an ugly
grin.

Saar screamed, clutched his face
between both hands and shrieked until his throat was raw. Invisible
bands of bronze compressed his chest to hinder his breath. The
terrible liquid spread through his skin like needles of flame,
following the path of his veins until it touched every muscle.
Something warm and thick flowed from his ears, his mouth, his nose.
Though the smell of it clogged his nostrils, Saar knew it was
blood. His heart beat faster.

‘
Set’s blood? That slayer of kin?
No— I don’t want— not him. I serve Horus.’

Kazemde wagged a finger. ‘Set claims
all creatures powerful enough to do his bidding. He’ll be pleased
to own one as strong-willed and well-placed as you. You’ll be
richly rewarded.’

‘
No!’ He lunged across the floor,
but the older man moved with another uncanny burst of speed.
Leaping up, he landed on the altar and crouched there, neck thrust
out like a vulture.

‘
Should you survive, you’ll be the
strongest man alive. Wars will be won through your power and skill.
Thousands will know your name. You’ll be loved. Feared. Just
survive. Like you always do.’

Saar thrust his fingers into the sand,
a curious echo of his actions on leaving the water. This time the
movement stemmed from mind-shattering pain. The domed walls wavered
in and out of focus. Light dimmed. A sound like rushing wind filled
his ears, chased by the rumble of heavy, crashing drums. No . . .
not drums. His heartbeat.

Through a misty haze he saw Kazemde
drop his cloak on the altar and lift both hands towards the curved
ceiling. Gone were the stooped back and rounded shoulders. Instead
Kazemde stood tall, his face stretching with a sound like tearing
ox hide. His mouth became a long, pointed muzzle and, through his
thickening hair, two ears grew. These were tall and upstanding,
rectangular and black, covered with short, coarse fur. A tail grew
from the base of his spine, curling around his naked knees into a
forked tip. His legs lengthened, loud pops signalling a shift in
his joints. The feet extended, his ankle flexing to bend like the
hindquarters of a desert fox. Fur sprung out all over his body.
Between his crooked legs swung the soft length of his manhood.

Saar recognised the hideous shape from
temple drawings. The creature with a muzzle and square ears,
fighting with the god of the underworld in a battle fuelled by
anger and jealousy.

‘
Set,’ he whispered.

‘
I’m not Set,’ Kazemde’s voice
echoed through the space. ‘But I’m permitted to use his form on
occasion.’

‘
You tricked me.’

‘
I gave you what you asked for.’
Thin lips drew back from that terrible muzzle and exposed twin rows
of glistening teeth. A pink tongue flopped out and licked the thick
black gums. ‘Now stand and tell me that you’re not stronger than
ever before.’

Saar gasped and slumped against the
ground, the absence of pain almost as bad as the muscle-twitching
agony of moments ago. He drew breath after ragged breath, clutching
his head with sandy fingers. He stood. With effort. When his knees
buckled, Saar shot out one hand and steadied himself on the edge of
the altar.

What he saw upon it made him leap back:
dried blood, bright and vibrant. Deep in the cracks of the stone,
he saw infinitesimal impurities as clear as the lines on his own
hands. Saar looked at these and choked on another embarrassing cry.
Through the sand, dried salt and grime, he saw lines and tracks on
his palms he’d never noticed before. On his arms, he noticed tiny
hairs, pores and imperfections in his colouring that made up the
familiar shade of his skin.

Then the sounds came, crowding in from
every side. The rush of water, the dry rasp of shifting sand.
Snuffles of burrowing creatures and the clicks and rustles of
lizards living in dens beneath the earth. He could smell them, dry,
musty, reminiscent of snakes.

‘
What have you done to me?’ He
swallowed and tasted salt.

Kazemde bared his teeth again. The lift
in his voice indicated the gesture might be a smile. ‘You’re
blessed. Protected by Set himself. Touched by his power and
strength.’

Saar covered his ears with his hands.
Then his eyes. Then his ears again. ‘These sounds— the smells—
everything crowds in all at once. I’ll go mad.’

‘
Master these new skills or be
mastered. If you don’t, I’ll return to kill you as I did
Ramesses.’

‘
You did this to me.’

Kazemde hopped off the altar. The
impact of his feet against the ground exploded in Saar’s ears like
a clap of thunder.

‘
Please, stop— the noise— it
hurts.’

‘
Only you can do that.’

‘
I can’t.’

‘
You can do anything.’ Kazemde’s
laughter filled the small chamber. ‘Did Kiya not say so? Your
mother? Is their faith in you without due cause? Must I kill you
now as I have so many others?’ His hand strayed towards the
dagger.

Long claws with jagged tips scraped
across the stone altar, so loud that Saar screamed. He beat his
forehead against the ground.

‘
Stop moving, I beg you.’

‘
God-touched men don’t beg.’

‘
Help me!’

The man-shaped creature sighed. ‘The
most I can do is speed your passing. Set has no love for weak men
and he’ll withdraw his gift as quickly as he gave it. Then I’ll
return to Alexandria to dispose of those who may ask for you.
Cleopatra. Panya. Kiya.’

Saar sat up. His vision tunnelled to a
narrow dot centred on Kazemde’s ugly, distorted face. Though his
legs shook and his arms trembled, he regained his feet and stepped
forward. ‘Don’t touch them. I’ll kill you, I swear it.’

Pain meant nothing now. The sounds died
away. The clarity and detail in his sight served only to show Saar
how best to destroy the source of his torment. He saw every hair on
that sleek black muzzle, every ripple of muscle beneath the wiry
fur. He watched the forked tail swish back and forth and felt the
tiny motions of the air disrupted by its passage.

‘
Well done, Saar. I knew you
wouldn’t disappoint me.’

The moment he stopped to think about
the lack of additional sound, Saar heard them again. An owl hooting
somewhere above. The gentle swish of a creature crawling through
the sand. He focused on his anger again, holding it close to his
chest and using it as a shield to block out everything else. Peace
returned.

Saar exhaled slowly through his nose.
‘I can’t do this.’

‘
You learned to wield a sword before
your fifteenth summer. You mastered the bow in the same year. In
every battle you’ve fought since joining Cleopatra’s army, you’ve
bested every trial set before you. This is no different. Look at
yourself.’

Another deep breath failed to steady
his nerves, though it did draw his attention to his body. Saar
stretched his spine, and rolled his shoulders. Everything felt . .
. normal.

Kazemde grinned. ‘Did I not tell
you?’

‘
I was wounded— my back— what
happened?’

‘
Your hand has also healed.’

Saar glanced at the palm he had scraped
against the floor of the Pharos lighthouse. No sign of the injury
remained. His back, when he twisted to reach it, was smooth.

‘
Do you believe me now?’

Saar couldn’t speak. Instead he
clutched the altar again and gazed at the walls. Incredible detail,
vibrant colours. Even chisel marks were visible. Faint streaks in
the paint, the mark of coarse brushes used to paint temple
walls.

‘
Set is pleased. He welcomes you to
his family and looks forward to your future offerings.’

‘
What offerings?’

‘
Blood, Saar. Always blood.’

‘
I don’t understand.’

‘
Marked with blood, by blood. From
blood all power comes.’ His voice took on a lilting quality as
though reciting lines from a long-forgotten prayer. ‘Set accepts
your gracious sacrifice and in return gives you long life, strength
and power. The gift remains so long as you offer regular
tribute.’

‘
I have no tribute. All wealth I
give to my mother . . . I have land. Perhaps he will—’

‘
Are you not listening, Saar?’
Kazemde’s eyes narrowed above that cruel muzzle. His tail lashed
the air. ‘Only blood will do.’

‘
But how?’

‘
Your Kiya is often keen to give you
other parts of herself. Why not blood too? I can help if you
wish.’

The veiled threat brought a snarl from
Saar’s throat. He stood up and, without thinking, without any
thought for what might follow, leapt through the air. Kazemde
darted aside, dropping the curving dagger. He spun around, tail
twitching. Saar faced him, clenching and unclenching his fists.

‘
Set is a tyrant,’ said Saar. ‘I
want none of his gifts or blessings.’

‘
Too late. You’re bound to him
now.’

‘
No—’

‘
Yes! You belong to him and will
offer regular tribute or suffer a death more painful than anything
you can imagine. And I’ll ensure you see both Kiya and Panya die
before you do.’

With a guttural roar, Saar dived across
the floor, snatching up the dagger as he rolled. He came to a low
crouch at Kazemde’s feet and thrust up with the deadly weapon,
driving the blade deep into the space beneath his hairy muzzle.

Kazemde shrieked and struck out with
both hands, but Saar swayed clear. Ducking beneath the flailing
hands he shoved on the blade hilt until his fingers struck the
furry chin.

‘
If I’m so powerful,’ he whispered,
‘then I can protect the ones I love.’ With one clean slice he
opened Kazemde’s throat. Blood sprayed out, black and reeking. The
other man clawed the air with his broken fingernails, struggling,
gurgling, gasping, wheezing. Saar watched the light die in those
huge red eyes. A hot river of crimson flooded over his face and
chest.

Long moments later the body stopped
moving.

Kazemde’s tail, muzzle and ears shrank
into his body. Fur rolled back as though sucked into his skin,
leaving behind a skinny old man with baggy skin, frail limbs and a
wide, red smile in his throat.

Lenina awoke on the living room
floor in front of the three-seat sofa. Thorne’s body lay close by,
arms crossed over his flabby stomach.

Everything ached, from her toes
to the tip of her nose.

She just had time to see
Jason’s face looming above her before her stomach lurched. Rolling
left, she retched; dry, throat-searing convulsions that brought
tears to her eyes.

‘She’s awake.’ Jason slapped
her on the back. Shock and relief mingled in his eyes. ‘She’s okay.
I knew it.’