Astarte's Wrath (5 page)

“Star!” he calls. “Don’t be this way. It was your wish that I’d act as Pharaoh. Come back.” He groans. “This is the only way I know how to protect you!”

My heart says to keep on, to not look back. But that is childish. Xarion and I may have grown up together: chasing one another in the palace gardens; swimming together in the sea; fighting for the last apricot, his favorite fruit. But I’m no longer a child. Nor is he.

He’s a pharaoh. And I’m his guardian.

The binding to him aches in my chest, tingles along my skin, my neck; the mark of the Kythan. The swirled ink engraved there forces me to obey his command to tell no one. But my heart aches. It’s the first time he’s ever enforced an order through a command. I’m not sure he understands how this has affected me—
us
. How it changes everything.

Turning to face him, I say, “I’ll tell no one, master.” I bow regally. “And if you plan to be ready for the procession in time, I suggest dressing soon. I’ll be waiting at your chambers to escort you.”

My eyes, narrowed and hurt, meet his before I turn and march out of the palace.

I have just enough
time to make it to the Rhakotis Quarter, change, and then enjoy a few free moments at the feast before I have to return to the palace.

Rhakotis is where the majority of the Egyptian citizens live. Where the Kythan live. Though I spend most of my time in the palace, even have my own quarters, I prefer to reside here when I can. As my mother was one of Cleopatra’s handmaidens, I grew up in the palace. But being here keeps me grounded, reminds me that I don’t belong across the harbor.

I’m still fuming over Xarion’s arrogance when I push through my creaky, wooden door. He’s never been one to let his station go to his head, but being raised as he has, it’s impossible for vanity not to seep through. And stubbornness.

It’s like he forgets I didn’t choose this profession. I’m not his guardian by choice. I’m a slave, like any other slave working in the palace. Though I’d have gladly, willingly devoted my life to him, I was born into servitude. Not chosen.

Ripping the tattered tunic from my body, I fling it to the floor. Then think better, and pick it up and toss it into the dim embers of my fire pit. They spark at once, blazing into a crackling flame. The garment is ruined. No reason to try and salvage the thread. It’s soaked through with blood and dirt. Sweat and grime.

I walk to my basin and pour the hard-earned, filtered water from the Cisterns into the copper tub. I rag myself clean, mentally cursing myself for allowing Xarion to rile me so that I didn’t think to use the washroom in my palace chamber. A deep soak would’ve been heavenly.

When I’m as clean as possible, I ransack my room, searching for the dress Lunia gave me yesterday. I find it tucked away between my armor and the half-finished glass vase I’ve been working on for Selene and Helios—Xarion’s younger, twin siblings.

A pang hits my chest, but I fight it back. I’m a hypocrite.

I lecture Xarion, and even Phoenix and Lunia, about our duties; our stations. But I still see the queen’s children as my friends and my family. I wish I didn’t. Especially since Xarion will be required to take a wife soon. When this war with Octavian is through—and it will be, by gods—he’ll be suited and wed.

And none of Xarion’s cousins are good enough for him. Two are far too young, and the others are spoiled and weak-minded; nothing like the queen’s immediate family.

“Isis,” I whisper. “Stop me from driving myself mad.” It’s the farthest thing I should be concerned with.

“All decent? Not that I care if you’re not.” Phoenix’s voice sounds through my door. Then he’s cracking it open.

“No—” I shout. “I’m not. Get out.” I grab up my red dress—so deeply dyed it resembles blood—and tuck it under my arms, covering myself. But only just.

Phoenix’s deep voice booms with laughter. It makes me smile despite myself. “Nothing I haven’t seen before—Oh, wow.” He halts in the doorway. His eyes brighten, their glowing red irises flame. “Maybe there
is
some new stuff I haven’t seen.”

“Out, Phoenix. Or I’ll sick Lunia on you.” I pull my dress up farther and glare.

He laughs again and shuts my door. “I’ll turn around.” He does so, and I scowl at his sculpted back.

Phoenix bears resemblance to the wall paintings and tapestries more than any Kythan I know. A full Narcolym, he’s all hard muscle and smooth, alabaster skin. Named after the fire bird of the sun god Ra who is reborn from its own ashes, Phoenix is just as beautiful, and his personality just as colorful.

The women adore him.

Luckily, I’ve known him forever, and have seen him play in mud and eat his own snot. I’m not swayed as easily by his practiced charms.

“I’m clothed,” I say, and Phoenix turns around to admire my saffron linen gown. The front of the skirt stops above my knees, while the back pools around my ankles. The loosely crossed top is clasped together over one shoulder by a golden lotus fibula.

“I should say so.” He slinks up to me and winks. “Lunia did well. You almost look like a lady.”

Ignoring his sarcasm, as I’m used to it, I worry my lip with my finger. Even if I hadn’t promised Xarion not to speak of the occurrence in the desert, I’m bound to it by his command. But I still want to know Phoenix’s thoughts on the greater matter. “Have you heard?”

He nods, his dark hair grazes his bare shoulders. “Next time there’s a threat, you can sit for the brats, and I’ll lay waste to those disappearing banshees.”

“Your charges are not brats,” I say. “And it was no easy feat, Phoenix. I’ve never faced anything like these Leymak. We didn’t win, just escaped.” I look away, to the sand just beyond the high walls of the city.

“What you did, with the barrier,” Phoenix says, and I look at him, “that was something. Thank the gods you’re all right”—his lips curl into a slick smile—“and that you learned from the best.” He flexes his biceps, and I laugh.

“Yes, I thought to myself, ‘how does Phoenix escape his mistresses after a busy night?’ And boom! The idea hit me like a glass wall.” I smile.

He scowls playfully. “Your virgin is showing.”

I toss a weak bolt of Charge his way and he ignites his forearm and deflects it, chuckling. “Pig,” I say.

Phoenix may make light of the situation, but I can see beneath his confident air that he was truly worried. But the fact that he’s able to joke means he doesn’t believe the Leymak are a true threat. It’s what I needed to hear from him. If there was any cause to be alarmed, he’d be hatching a grand escape plan for our masters. It’s just how his mind works.

I turn toward my table and skim my fingers over the cedar box that holds jewelry I rarely have reason to wear. My mother’s heirlooms. “Let me finish dressing, then we can go together to escort Xarion to the procession.”

He sighs and settles down on my bed, lying back with his pale arms tucked behind his head. As I slip the bangles on to my arm, Phoenix says, “I am relieved you’re all right.”

I hear the sincerity in his tone, and its warmth washes over me. He’s my family, too.

“I’d not leave you here to take care of yourself,” I say, glancing up. “You’d be in trouble.”

His eyebrows hike. “Oh, I plan on getting into much trouble tonight. And I’m taking you down with me.”

Chapter Five

T
here is a quiet
fear churning through the cool night air of Alexandria. It hums just below the clattering, pulsing chaos of the Royal Quarter. It festers, decaying away at the citizens, like the dead buried beneath the streets and gardens; the catacombs.

Alexandria is dressed for the Sekhmet feast: blood reds; deep lavenders; dusty roses. All in celebration of life and love to soothe Sekhmet. It’s her wrath that must be sated in order for the Nile to rise, and the ground to bear a bountiful harvest.

Candra’s taunt of my name’s origin comes to mind, as Astarte was likened to the war goddess Sekhmet. My mother claimed she chose Astarte because I had much wrath in need of taming—I’ve always had a temper. But, I know this was her way of teasing, as she often called me her little evening star. So honestly, I’m unsure whether my name is of Greek or Egyptian descent. Although I choose to believe I’m not unlike the city I grew up in: diverse.

A guardian waves a tapestry with the image of the war goddess. The feast is close to the change of the season, when the Nile rises to fertilize the crops. So even if there is no war, it’s become our way to relive the time when she brought us out of our misery, and to give life to our land.

The legend says that long ago, the pharaohs incited a rebellion. They tried to use the powers of the Kythan to overthrow the gods. The lioness-headed deity Sekhmet was sent to earth by Ra to punish man for his disobedience.

Sekhmet became The Eye of Ra and descended upon man, desecrating everything in her path.

But seeing the carnage, Ra feared for the demise of his most loved creation: man. He commanded Sekhmet to stop, but Sekhmet was unstoppable in her blood lust. The fields, the land, and the Nile ran with blood. Ra ordered a tonic, one combining alcohol, blood, belladonna, and opium—stained red with pomegranate—to be poured over the land in her path.

Sekhmet thought it was blood and drank it. She became filled with joy and love. To further soothe her, Ra named her “The One Who Comes in Peace.” And after battles are fought and won, we praise Sekhmet, pacifying her destructive nature, and peace is returned to Egypt.

But there was no great battle won today.

A storm cloud hangs over us, swelling with uncertainty of the Leymak’s return. Of Octavian’s legions, stationed just miles out, waiting for an opportune moment to strike.

And our ruler is not here to walk in the procession—to comfort Alexandria in her uncertainty. She is far across the sea, waging a war she may not return from. So regardless of the distress in the air, Xarion is right. We need this feast. We need it to be an amazing celebration that will pacify the lioness deity and praise the gods. For it to strengthen us, unite us, and impress upon the gods to protect us.

All of Alexandria is equal tonight: slaves mingle with nobles; royalty dances with commoners; the varying districts of the city admire the gods in unity, despite their different beliefs. It reminds me of what Fadil said, and I question how the immortal ones could ever punish them as they praise them so. The people feast savagely, dance seductively, and bathe themselves in blood-red.

Though this designed demonstration of carnage is a welcome deviation from the massacre on the battlefield in the desert.

The gold and malachite beads in my hair clank, swaying against my shoulders as I move through the dancing bodies. I lift the sheer hem of my dress, dodging the pools staining the ground. It flows in tiny rivers, washing the sand-covered granite in crimson. The fires reflect in its liquescent, shiny surface, and the whole Beta District is alight with life.

Feet splash the red concoction of beer and opium as people laugh and dance. My sandals are already covered in crimson, as if I’ve been dipping my feet in blood.

In the middle, giant barrels are filled to the brim of the mix, pouring over the side, people dipping in their goblets. Half of the celebrating citizens are already drunk. Their bodies undulate, vibrating to the low drum of music.

A topless servant twirls in circles, her chest bathed in the red drink, and by her side, encouraging her on—my friend. Phoenix.

Of course
. I shake my head as I approach him. “Please don’t overdo it tonight. I won’t be guilted into sitting you this time.”

He tips his cup back, guzzling the opium-laced drink, then laughs. “Star!” He presses the scantily-clad servant to his naked chest, their skin sheen from sweat and oils. “Let me fetch you a drink. Then you won’t mind my obnoxiousness as much.”

The girl giggles, running her hands down Phoenix’s chest. It’s the norm here. Every week, there is a different celebration, another reason to praise the gods. And Phoenix takes advantage of them all. But the Sekhmet feast is the most pleasing to him as the heart of it is to live and love, to show the gods how thankful we are that they have given us bodies to unite and populate the world.