Servant of the Gods (17 page)

“I have a favor to ask you,” she said.

Frowning a little, puzzled by the intensity of her gaze, Khai looked at her. “Name it.”

She reached into her wallet where it hung from her belt and drew something out.

“Wear this for me,” she said, her voice soft, nearly breathless.

She held out a plain hammered gold chain. A simple knotwork pendant hung from it.

He looked at her. The expression in her eyes caught at him.

“What is it?” he asked.

“A charm against dark magic,” she said, quietly, her clear blue eyes intent on his.

He looked at it, at the intricate and complicated pattern woven in the gold, a pattern both familiar and unfamiliar. Isis’s knot threaded with that of another.

Irisi’s brilliant eyes looked at him with half a plea in them, the light in them too bright, too harsh, already glittering with fever.

“Indulge me,” she asked, those eyes meeting his.

“How can I refuse such an offer?” he said, gently but teasingly.

“Please.” Her voice shook on the simple word.

Something moved in her eyes, a shadow. Concern…

“It means so much to you?” Khai asked, brushing a strand of her hair back from her face, more intimacy than he’d yet allowed himself since that long ago night.

The tenderness of the gesture made Irisi’s throat go tight.

This might be her last and only opportunity to give him some protection, given what they might face. She’d intended it originally for another purpose but it might suit as well now.

At least it was something.

“Yes.”

Khai looked at her.

While her answer was simple, the look in her eyes was anything but. Shadows and something else moved in them. Something in her gaze lightened and warmed him, gave him hope.

He lowered his head to allow her to slip the chain over it.

Irisi’s breath caught at the trust he offered her.

Almost involuntarily she brushed her hands over his soft, dark hair as she did it, before she slipped them beneath the thick waves to allow the chain and the pendant to settle against his skin.

Khai felt the caress. Lifting his head again, he caught the expression on her face, tender, vulnerable, her soft lips parted.

Swiftly, she speared her fingers into his hair and raised up onto her toes to kiss him lightly. Then she tapped the charm where it hung over his heart. “Promise me you’ll never take it off.”

Her eyes were solemn, intent. Khai could still feel the impression of her lips on his.

“I promise,” he said, quietly.

Her fingers stroked his cheek, quickly, lightly. “Have a care, my Lord General.”

The words and gestures caught at him. If only there was more time, but there wasn’t.

“And you, my Lady, as well,” he said.

Regret was on her face and in his heart.

Time grew shorter, later, she had to go and yet he didn’t want to release her. It was a long journey back with only three guards.

And a lion.

Her mission, though, was vital, if she could bring them more knowledge, if she could bring them aid. Anything that would help.

Sweeping her up in his arms, Khai held her there for only a moment, looking into her lovely face, before he tossed her lightly up into the saddle. He prayed no harm would come to her on her journey.

With a whistle to Nebi and a gesture to her guards, who had already mounted their horses Irisi turned to ride away, glancing backwards just once.

There was only Khai, standing in the thin early morning light, his dark hair tumbling around his shoulders, his eyes intent as he watched them depart.

It was such a strange sensation, the ache around her heart. Her throat was tight.

Baraka stepped out of Akhom’s tent.

Knowing Kamenwati, she couldn’t have left Khai unprotected, undefended. Wouldn’t have.

She’d begun work on it after his last visit to the temple. A blend of magic, the knot of Isis wrapped around the Celtic and Druidic knotwork of her childhood. She’d poured all the magic she knew into the making of it. It was simple in fashion, easy to overlook.

With luck, the charm would hold not just against Kamenwati’s dark magic, but that of the Djinn.

Or so she hoped. She begged the Goddess, in whatever form it was she took, to make it so.

The small party clattered into the temple courtyard late in the afternoon. One glance at the haggard look on Irisi’s face and a priest eyes widened. Irisi had no doubt what he saw. He ran for Banafrit while a priestess, seeing Irisi’s pale skin and wide too-bright eyes, hurried over to help her dismount as another priest came to lead the horses away. Even as Irisi sank to the ground, feverish, drained and too tired to go any farther, her guard collapsed within the shade of the walls in exhaustion. They’d been riding nearly nonstop for almost two days.

Nebi lay down at Irisi’s side, staying close, his great amber eyes appearing worried as he settled next to her. He huffed out a weary breath. Irisi ruffled his mane, but her heart wasn’t in it.

It seemed that the longer they rode, the more the wounds in her thigh ached. The leg was swollen to nearly twice its size and far more painful than it had been only that morning. This in spite of her poultices. She’d known then that if she stopped, she wouldn’t reach Thebes. Darkness hovered at the edges of her vision.

She heard footsteps, and looked up.

Banafrit came at a run, her alarm visible as she took in Irisi’s strained face and the bandage around her now badly swollen thigh.

“Irisi,” Banafrit said, in concern.

“Djinn,” Irisi said, in case she fainted, knowing what Banafrit would need to know. “An army of Djinn. Dark Djinn. That’s what comes.”

In the back of her mind all she could think of was Khai out there on the edge of the desert. Khai, his men, and the Army of Egypt. Alone against Djinn.

Banafrit stopped at Irisi’s word. A chill went through her.

“That’s not possible,” she whispered. “The Djinn cannot be commanded.”

Banafrit was breathless at the implication, at the enormity of it.

“A Darkness… Like a black cloud…” she remembered some of the survivors saying. The sila, in the form of smoke…?

Suddenly it all made sense.

“Djinn are free spirits…” Banafrit said, half to herself.

Even with the fever burning , Irisi watched her. She saw the import of her words penetrate and nodded in like horror.

Like men, Djinn served the Gods or not, as they chose. Except that they, unlike men, were nearly immortal. In the end, Dark Djinn, evil Djinn would stand before Ma’at as men would, to answer for their deeds, but that day could be far in the future. Until then…

Some Djinn weren’t quite as intelligent as men, but all were far stronger, as Irisi now knew.

The ghul could appear as men, or hyenas, and usually haunted the lands of the dead. Ifrit could change shape while the sila could change form. The wounds of the sila and the ifrit caused festering wounds… The only known cure was cauterization. The wounds of the ghul were the same, save that, if untreated and the victims died, those thus wounded became ghul.

Then there were the marid… Some Djinn could possess a soul, force it to misdeeds, thus condemning the soul to wander rather than pass to the afterlife. Like the Marid.

In horror, Banafrit considered all those they’d buried over the last days, all those dead who might yet rise again… Only fire or salt could free their souls to pass on to the afterlife.

She beckoned messengers, sent them to Djeserit, Awan, Kahotep and the others to warn them and ask for aid.

Irisi saw understanding dawn on Banafrit’s face and heard the orders given, saw Banafrit’s expression grow grim and wince in sympathy as Aisha unwound the fouled dressing on Irisi’s leg.

“To fight as a unit…,” Banafrit said softly.

It was unheard of, incomprehensible, and counter to everything Banafrit knew. Djinn never worked together, not individuals and never in numbers.

Until now.

Looking up at Banafrit, Irisi nodded.

As the wound was revealed, Aisha gave a hiss…

Banafrit sucked in a breath, her gaze drawn to the wound.

It was clearly going bad, the fluid draining was noxious, the skin around the slices badly enflamed. An ifrit or sila, possibly even ghul. The wounds should have been cauterized immediately. It didn’t matter now, for by the look of Irisi’s leg the poison was in her blood. As good as their healers were, for this only those of Sekhmet were better. Only they could heal such wounds as Irisi bore.

“When Djeserit arrives, ask her to join us, please,” Banafrit said to a priestess.

The girl went at a run.

Banafrit’s gaze turned south and west, speculatively.

Djinn. It shouldn’t have been possible, but she couldn’t deny the truth of it in the face of all they’d heard or Irisi’s wounds.

“A quarter of the army is there,” Irisi said, following the direction of Banafrit’s eyes. “They don’t know how to fight Djinn.”

Egypt depended on her army. If so much of it was wiped out? They would be undermanned, vulnerable. If enemies of Egypt were to learn of it…

“Djinn,” Banafrit said, “don’t fight together by choice. Someone is behind this but who, and how?”

In all Thebes only a few had the power to do so, but there was only one that they knew who would have and could have. Neither of them spoke that name aloud. He had spies everywhere, even among their own people. If he guessed they suspected him…

“How much time do we have?” Banafrit asked.

Irisi considered it, putting her aches and fever aside for the moment. They’d ridden most of the late afternoon and through the night, pushing the horses as much as she’d dared. How fast could the Djinn travel? How fast would they? There had been those villages. Not all had fled. She dared not think on that too long, knowing what the fate of those who’d remained had likely been.

She’d pushed hard to return to Thebes. The horses had been tired, though.

“If Akhom is wise,” Irisi said, “and listens to Khai, he’ll stay where he is and let the Djinn come to him. Even so, it will be only a few days, maybe a little less or a little more, before they face them.”

Khai. A part of Irisi’s heart twisted to think of him once again amongst the Djinn. Alone.

There had to be a way to fight them.

Banafrit summoned some of the priests. “Take her to her rooms, make her rest.”

Make her rest… Irisi didn’t want to rest. She wanted to return to the army.

She struggled, protesting, but she was too weak, and she knew it was futile. That order wouldn’t be gainsaid. Aisha sifted the proper herbs over her leg. It went numb.

Banafrit watched them carry Irisi away, and then went to meet the others.

If what Irisi said was true they had little time and decisions had to be made.

The room was shadowed, a relief to Irisi’s fevered, aching body. The sun outside the windows hung low on the horizon, offering the promise of the coolness of night. Already she longed for it. She burned. Sweat poured from her to soak the linen sheets beneath her.

Djeserit slipped silently into her room, and Irisi frowned to see the other priestess there.

She watched the other woman, puzzled and mildly concerned, although she didn’t know why she should be worried except that it seemed Djeserit’s eyes glowed alarmingly red in the dimming light. But that had to be an illusion, a thing of the fire that burned within her.

Settling onto the cot beside her Djeserit looked at her in silence, a distant concern in her deep brown eyes. It seemed now Djeserit was closer that Irisi could see sparks of fire in Djeserit’s glowing eyes but that had to be something of the fever.

Djeserit’s eyes narrowed.

She lifted Irisi’s wrist, breathed in the scent of her skin. Fever touched the girl, clearly. It moved in her like a poison, which fit what they knew of the Djinn.

Hunger moved in Djeserit as well.

“I don’t do this often,” she chided the girl gently, but not unkindly, “so don’t make a habit of taking such wounds, if you would. Folk forget that Sekhmet is the Goddess of Healers as well as the Goddess of Destruction. How we heal…well, that’s another matter.”

Djeserit shivered in anticipation, and smiled.

Irisi’s gaze met Djeserit’s.

Alarmed, Irisi looked at her, struggling up from her pillows, as a rush of apprehension swept through her. She saw the deep red glow in them more clearly. That smile revealed Djeserit’s teeth, the long incisors lengthening as the priestesses smile broadened.

Fear was like adding spice to fine wine.

Djeserit sighed in satisfaction and said, “That’s better.”

Djeserit gestured. The priest Amun came to hold Irisi in place, his hands firm on her shoulders.

As quick as a snake Djeserit struck, sinking her teeth into Irisi’s wrist.

Pain was sharp and sudden, almost shocking.

Too weak to fight, still Irisi tried…until a strange, nearly pleasant lassitude swept over her, swelling as fear and ecstasy warred within her. Pleasure won, rushing through her like a flood tide. Fascinated now by the pulsing red light within Djeserit’s dark eyes, Irisi could only watch helplessly as her lifeblood was drawn from her. A sense of release and relief supplanted the fear. Her eyelids fluttered as pain faded and a languid delight filled her with each motion of Djeserit’s mouth on her skin.

Like a tide, weakness ebbed and flowed through Irisi with each motion of Djeserit’s throat until she fell back weakly against the cot, pressed into it by Amun’s hands. Helplessly, she watched as the priestess drank her thirstily.

Her throat working, Djeserit took in the girl’s thick, poisoned blood, leavened, sweetened and seasoned by fear, then by arousal. She swallowed, sifting the poison from the girl’s blood as the venom pumped from her teeth into the girl’s veins. It was such a relief to be able to let go like this. The sensation was wonderful and the girl tasted heavenly, as each did. Some were saltier, some sweet, some vibrant, thick and rich…

This one? She was unique. She tasted pure, sweet and rich, so very, very, rich.

Fighting the delectation, the wonderful wine-like taste of the girl’s blood, her life force so intensely bound to it, Djeserit raised her head, panting with the effort to pull herself back.

With an effort, she let out a breath, turned her head to look at the girl.

Not ‘the girl’.
Make her real
, she reminded herself.
You’re not Djinn, Djeserit, you’re the High Priestess of Sekhmet. This was Irisi. Priestess of Isis. A friend
.

The prophecy
. Djeserit reminded herself.

She fought the desire to lick her lips, to savor Irisi’s taste on them.

“This is why we didn’t take you into the temple,” Djeserit explained, gently. “When morning comes you will feel better. Most of the poison is gone, a gift of the Goddess I serve. Your body will replace that which was lost during the night. Sleep now.”

Oddly enough, some small part of Irisi yearned for the completion she’d been denied but already she felt lighter, less feverish and more herself again. She was weak but much better.

Wearily, Irisi nodded. “Djeserit? Thank you.”

A little surprised, Djeserit turned at the door. No one had ever thanked her before.

But Irisi was already asleep.

“Don’t thank me, child,” Djeserit said, softly. “Especially if the prophecy is true. You won’t thank me then for what I’ve done here this night.”

She closed the door behind her.

Exhausted, drained both literally and figuratively, Irisi slept deeply as night fell, whatever her fears might have been, and dreamed.

The cavern of her dream was deep and dark, buried in stone. All around her were the forms of the Gods and Goddesses, but only the forms… She was alone, vulnerable, as something terrible erupted out of the darkness below to rend and tear…

Fear tasted as coppery as blood.

Despite it, she drew her swords and stood to face what came…

Then she wasn’t alone: her lions were ranged around her, rumbling warningly low in their throats as they crouched and a familiar beloved presence stood at her back…

She could face anything, then, even death itself with them there.