—<EIGHT>—

Meditations on Life and Death

Lahmia, the City of the Dawn, in the 99th year of Ualatp the Patient
(-1290 Imperial Reckoning)

 

 

Lightning split the sky over Lahmia, burning white-hot against a backdrop of roiling black cloud. For a fraction of an instant the garden clearing was thrown into stark relief; each stunted, thrashing branch, each bent blade of grass, each frantic ripple across the wide, dark pond—then darkness rushed in and thunder beat at the back of Alcadizzar’s head and shoulders. Rain lashed at his naked body, coursing down his forehead and into his eyes. After the heat of the day, the cold water wracked him with painful spasms in his arms and legs. It was all he could do to remain upright, focussing on the fading heat in his veins and drawing what little strength he could from it.

This is the day I die.

The thought echoed over and over in his mind. For seven days and seven nights he had been left alone in the garden to purify his mind and body and prepare for the ordeal to come. The high priestesses had stripped him of his robes and left him with neither food nor water; if he were worthy, the gifts of the goddess would be enough to sustain him.

This is the day I die.

Surprisingly, he’d felt no hunger. No thirst. After the first few nights, he’d felt no fatigue, either. The sun burned his skin by day, until he welcomed the thunderstorms that blew in from the sea at evening; then darkness would fall and the night air would chill him to the bone. The passage of time had become disjointed as he’d withdrawn deeper and deeper into his own mind. Meditate, the high priestesses had told him. When one had been cleansed of all worldly cares, only the goddess remained. That was the path to salvation.

And so he’d looked inwards, seeking the goddess. For the first time, he tried to put aside his dreams and ambitions, to stifle his hunger for a life outside the walls of palace or temple, but he found that he could not. The fact was that he didn’t want to. He didn’t want the gifts of the goddess. He wanted Khemri. He wanted to stride the world as a king and a conqueror, not spend his days pondering the mysteries of some esoteric cult. During the long years of study he’d tried to convince himself otherwise, that he could balance the duties of a hierophant with the drives of a monarch, but after the fourth day in the garden he could no longer deny the truth. Alcadizzar was no priest, and never would be.

The realisation had been a painful one. He could not turn aside now, not after pledging himself to the temple. He refused to forswear himself, even to save his own life. All that remained now was to endure as long as he could, and then go to the lands of the dead with his honour still intact.

This is the day I die, he thought calmly. Lightning flashed and the rain poured down, and he waited for the moment to come.

 

After a time, the storm’s fury abated. Night drew on, with a bright, full moon rising above the sea to the east. The frogs began to sing from the depths of the garden and the cicadas murmured in the trees. Bats whirled high overhead, their darting shapes silhouetted against the starlight.

He was not aware of the high priestesses until they had emerged from the trees surrounding the clearing. Their golden masks shone like lamps beneath the moon, and their samite robes seemed to float about their bodies as they walked bare-footed across the damp grass. Alcadizzar smiled at the sight of them after so many days with nothing but his thoughts for company. Silently they glided up to the prince, forming a wide circle around him. Their eyes were flat and pitiless.

The prince straightened his back and turned his head up to the sky. He breathed deeply, tasting the night air. Salt and stone, green grass and murky water; these were the smells he would take with him into the afterlife.

Between one breath and the next, he felt her enter the clearing. He could feel her presence like a weight upon his soul. The pressure increased with every step she took, causing his pulse to quicken and a chill to race down his spine. He couldn’t say how long she had affected him so; the connection he felt had grown slowly over the years, bound ever more tightly together with each ritual sharing of the goddess’ cup. Until recently, he’d thought the bond was a measure of his devotion to the cult; now he wasn’t sure what to believe.

The high priestesses seemed to share Alcadizzar’s connection; they bowed their heads in unison as she approached the circle and two of the masked women stood aside to allow her to pass inside.

She glided silently across the grass to stand before Alcadizzar. From his perspective, she seemed to tower above him, like one of the lost gods. She wore a fitted golden breastplate engraved with twining asps, over a robe of white samite bordered at the hem and sleeves with bands of gold thread. A necklace of fiery rubies encircled her pale throat, glinting like fresh drops of blood. Her gold mask seemed to glow against the backdrop of her lustrous black hair. A broad-rimmed goblet was clasped reverently against her chest. Two high priestesses followed in her wake; one bore a second goblet in her hands, while the other held a heavy leather scourge.

For a moment she said nothing. He could feel her gaze against his skin like a caress. Gooseflesh ran along his arms and down the back of his neck. Alcadizzar gritted his teeth and tried to suppress a shudder.

Finally, she spoke. “Prince Alcadizzar of Rasetra, you have spent seven days and seven nights in solitary vigil, purifying your mind and body of worldly desires. We have gathered here to elevate you to the temple’s highest rank, but first you must demonstrate your devotion and piety in a trial of suffering. Do you understand?”

Alcadizzar nodded gravely. “I do, holy one,” he replied, his voice roughened by disuse.

“You will be tested unto destruction, oh prince,” she said. Her voice was cold, but her dark eyes smouldered with suppressed emotion. “It is the only way. If your heart and mind are pure, the blood of the goddess will sustain you.”

“I know,” he said. Alcadizzar summoned his resolve, determined to accept his fate with dignity. “Let it be done.”

“Then rise, oh prince, and drink from the cup of the goddess.”

Alcadizzar took a deep breath and forced his cramped limbs to work. Slowly, carefully, he rose to his feet. Fiery pain blossomed from his shoulders all the way to his toes, but he forced the sensations into the back of his mind. Solemnly, he took the proffered cup and raised it to his lips. The metal rim was warm and the dark liquid soft. Asaph’s Kiss, he’d heard it called by some of the priestesses. He drank, and this time the ritual offering was far more potent than he’d tasted before. Its heat spread through his body in an instant, taking away his pain and filling him with strength. His mind reeled, borne on a sudden wave of euphoria that seemed to emanate, not from the cup, but from her. She took the cup from his hands and he knew that she was smiling behind the curve of her mask.

“Do not be afraid,” she said softly—or perhaps she had merely thought it. He could not say for certain anymore.

She withdrew from him then, and he felt it like an ache in his heart. It took all of Alcadizzar’s concentration not to try and follow her. Instead, he focussed on the high priestess who stepped up to take her place. Without a word, she offered him the second cup.

“Drink,” the priestess said in a husky voice.

He took the cup without fear and drained it in a single draught. The wine was sweet and spiced with a multitude of herbs, but not enough to hide the bitter taste of the poison within.

When he handed back the goblet, he met the masked priestess’ eyes and was surprised to find that they were brimming with tears. Without thinking, he tried to give her a reassuring smile. She bowed her head and returned to her mistress’ side. As she did so, the rest of the circle began a low, almost mournful chant.

The die was cast. Alcadizzar was surprised at how calm he felt. It might have been the effects of the elixir, but the prince wanted to think otherwise. Once more, he turned his face to the sky.

Forgive me father, he thought, and offered himself up for judgement.

 

The pain came on quickly. It began as a terrible burning in his guts that grew more intense with every passing moment, as though he were swallowing one hot coal after another. He clenched his jaw and kept silent for what felt like an eternity, thinking that eventually the agony would subside, but no such relief came. His body began to tremble uncontrollably and a strangled scream forced its way past his lips.

Moments later he was lying on the wet grass, his naked form curled into a foetal ball as the poison worked its way through his body. The muscles of his torso first began to ache, then, like the tightening of ropes, they began to contract and stiffen. The suffering spread through his limbs, then up his neck and along the muscles of his face. His screams became agonised gasps, whistling through clenched teeth as an invisible fist closed about his chest. Every beat of his heart was like a red-hot dagger driving into his ribs. Darkness began to crowd the edges of his vision, until he was certain that he was going to pass out, but somehow the promise of oblivion never came.

Hours passed. Slowly, gradually, the agony began to ebb away. It receded like the tide, shrinking from his head and limbs and drawing back into his chest. Little by little his aching muscles sagged; when his head bent far enough for his temple to touch the cool grass, the sensation was so shocking it caused him to cry anew.

Slowly, painfully, he began to draw ever-deeper breaths, despite the red-hot bands that still wrapped around his chest. Each gulp of air tasted sweet and cool, and though it made his throat ache, he found himself gasping for more. He scarcely noticed when two of the priestesses came forwards and knelt beside him. Still chanting, they each gripped one of his wrists and with surprising strength they lifted him until he was able to get his knees underneath him and sit back shakily upon his heels. Then the women drew apart, stretching his arms to their full length between them. Alcadizzar felt their small hands tighten upon his wrists and wondered hazily why—then came the first, fiery lash of the scourge.

The scourge’s seven leather tails—each one a six-foot length of braided leather that was studded with dozens of tooth-like shards of glass—raked across his shoulders like the claws of a lion. The pain was so sudden and so intense that it left him speechless; his whole body spasmed under the blow and the priestesses who held him were nearly hauled off their feet. Alcadizzar scarcely had time to draw a single breath before the next blow struck. Hot blood spattered the backs of his outstretched arms and began to flow in rivulets down the small of his back.

The priestess who wielded the scourge was an expert. By the seventh stroke, the skin of his back was in tatters from the nape of his neck to the top of his waist. And still the blows kept coming, tearing implacably into flesh and muscle. The agony was beyond anything Alcadizzar had ever known. After the tenth stroke he thought he could stand no more and that surely he would pass out from the pain, but his mind and body stubbornly refused to succumb. He felt each and every blow as vividly as the first.

In the public squares and aboard the slave galleys of Lahmia, twenty lashes with a scourge was regarded as severe punishment. Forty lashes was a death sentence. After a hundred lashes, the priestesses finally lowered Alcadizzar’s twitching body to the grass.

He could not say how long he lay there, his blood soaking into the sward. Alcadizzar’s entire body felt as though it were on fire. His face was pressed to the grass; eyes open and mouth slack, breathing in shallow, ragged gasps. He could see the silhouette of a number of the priestesses, but could not hear their chanting for the roaring in his ears. Not long now, he thought. Soon the stars would go out and blackness fall like a shroud, and then he would cross over into the realm of the dead.

But then Alcadizzar heard her voice. “Rise up, oh prince,” she said. It was as though she were whispering softly into his ear. He could almost feel her breath on his skin.

“There is but one final test, Alcadizzar. Rise up.”

Alcadizzar coughed weakly. It was the nearest to a laugh he could manage. And yet, there was something in her voice that compelled him to try. He tried to focus on his limbs, using the tricks of concentration he’d learned in his years at the temple. After a moment, the searing pain began to ebb. His hands and feet twitched, and then, unbelievably, they obeyed his commands. Slowly, weakly, he pulled his arms in close, and then, with a shuddering breath, he pushed himself up onto his knees. The ground beneath him was dark with blood.

“That’s it!” he heard her say. “Rise up, beloved! Rise, and come to me!”

Another breath and he was rearing shakily to his feet. Alcadizzar’s head swam and he staggered backwards a step before catching himself. The pain flared again, clawing across his shoulders and down his back in lines of fire. His head swam, and for a dizzying second he thought he might fall to the ground, never to rise again.

“Here,” she said. Her words were like honey. “Here I am. Come to me.”

Alcadizzar blinked dazedly, struggling to focus on her voice. She was just in front of him, radiant in gold and white, her left hand outstretched to welcome him. Her dark eyes gleamed with passion from the depths of her polished mask.

He drew a deep breath and pushed back against the tide of pain. His right foot twitched and then shuffled forwards a half-step. Another breath, and his left foot moved as well. A collective, indrawn breath went up from the assembled priestesses.

His strength began to ebb almost at once. Alcadizzar felt his knees start to tremble. Staying upright demanded more and more of his concentration, allowing jagged spikes of pain to shoot up his spine with every step. Yet he kept moving forwards, his eyes fixed on her pale, slender hand.

Alcadizzar’s hand trembled as he reached for her. Her palm was cool and hard, like marble. The prince’s eyes widened in awe as she gently pulled him close, as though to embrace him.

The sudden pain in his chest was sharp and cold, and for a moment it left him baffled. The chanting stopped. Then he looked down and saw the silver hilt of the dagger jutting from his breast. The blade had slipped effortlessly between his ribs, transfixing his heart.

Alcadizzar frowned in bemusement. She let go of his hand, reaching up instead to grip his ragged shoulder. He looked up at her, trying to speak, but his lungs would not draw breath. A terrible ache spread through his chest, dulling his nerves and stealing away his strength. His legs buckled. She lowered him back to the grass, one hand still gripping the hilt of the dagger.

Her perfect, golden face floated above him, serene and inscrutable. Sensation faded swiftly. The last thing Alcadizzar clearly felt was a sharp pang of regret. His gaze drifted to the firmament of stars glittering overhead as he waited for the end to come.

Yet darkness did not come rushing in. One moment stretched into another, without discernible end. His thoughts drifted, as though in a dream, his sense of regret transforming into a leaden feeling of pure, mindless horror. He had died, but was not dead. He was not dead!

And then, faintly, he heard her sigh, and watched as she slowly withdrew the dagger from his heart. Inch by inch, the bloodstained bronze emerged from his chest, until the point came free in a single, sharp tug.

All at once, Alcadizzar felt his heart clench. A spasm of agony wracked his chest. His back arched and his lungs filled with air. The prince returned to life with a wordless cry of pain.

Alcadizzar collapsed back against the grass, chest heaving as he gasped for air like a drowning man. The pain in his chest spread like a fire through the rest of his body and he was powerless to stop it.

Robed figures crowded in around him, their ecstatic cries drowning out his own gasps of pain. Alcadizzar glanced from one identical mask to another, trying to make some sense of what was happening. The pain made it nearly impossible to think.

Finally, his eyes met hers. She stared down at him, her entire body radiating a terrible, almost primal joy.

“You see?” she said to the priestesses. Her voice was husky, like the growl of a hungry beast. “He was pierced by the knife, and yet he did not die! He is worthy, sisters! Alcadizzar has been chosen!”

And then, at last, the darkness rose up to claim him.

 

He awoke to gentle, perfumed breezes and the cool weight of silken sheets against his skin. After so many years sleeping on a simple priest’s cot, the sensation was both familiar, and yet eerily strange at the same time.

Alcadizzar slowly opened his eyes. He lay upon a vast feather bed, larger and more sumptuous than anything he’d known in the royal palace. The hour was very late; he could tell by the hushed sounds of the city that it was close to dawn.

The prince drew a long, deep breath. His chest ached from front to back, all the way down to his bones. It reminded him of the time, many years back, when he’d been kicked in the ribs by a horse during one of his first riding lessons. Moving as though he was in a dream, he rose weakly on his right elbow and peered down at his chest. The room was plunged in shadow, but he could see enough to tell that he’d been bathed and wrapped in a robe of yellow silk.

Hesitantly, Alcadizzar pulled back the left side of his robe. The knife wound was visible as a neat, dark line of scar tissue incised into the flat plane of pectoral muscle just above his heart.

“It is sweet, is it not?”

Her voice rose from the shadows at the far end of the room, where gauzy curtains stirred languidly in the faint sea breeze. Alcadizzar blinked in surprise. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he could just make out the graceful curve of shoulder and hip as she leaned against the frame of one of the tall, open windows.

“Death is more than just an endless night,” she went on. “It’s cold and empty, in a way no living man can understand.” Silk rustled as she turned slightly, the perfect shape of her profile silhouetted against the pale, night sky. “The air tastes like wine now, doesn’t it? The feel of silk is like a lover’s caress.”

She continued to turn, stepping away from the window’s edge and regarding Alcadizzar’s recumbent form. The faint glow of false dawn limned her in silver. Her dark hair was still bound up in tight curls, but she had divested herself of her jewels and ritual finery in favour of a simple, diaphanous cotton robe. Her eyes were pools of darkness, her cheek smooth and cold. The face of the goddess was inscrutable and alluring, pale as the death mask of a queen.

He watched as she took another step towards him. The breeze shifted the curtains behind her, letting in more of the outside light, and Alcadizzar’s breath caught in his throat. Gooseflesh prickled his skin. The goddess’ face was pale as alabaster and her perfect lips were quirked in a faint, enigmatic smile. The prince’s mind reeled. Her unearthly features were not wrought from polished gold, but soft flesh and delicate bone.

“Blessed Asaph,” he whispered. “The—the mask…”

Her smile widened. “You have endured the Trial of Rebirth, oh prince,” she said, misreading the look of shock in Alcadizzar’s eyes. “We are one and the same now, so there is no further need for artifice.”

Before the prince could reply, she raised her arm and beckoned to the shadows at Alcadizzar’s left. A robed figure shuffled painfully out of the darkness, clutching a golden goblet to his chest.

“Your body has already healed the worst of your injuries,” she said, “but the ordeal consumed much of your strength. Drink this, and then we will discuss your future.”

The servant approached the bedside. His shoulders were hunched awkwardly, as though beneath an invisible weight. Though the man’s head was downcast, Alcadizzar recognised the faded tattoos that wound sinuously about his shaven skull. “Ubaid?” he said wonderingly.

Ubaid’s head rose at the sound of his name. The old servant’s expression was haggard, his lips slack and faintly trembling, but for all that, he hadn’t aged a bit since he’d left the prince outside the temple some thirty years before. A tiny flicker of awareness shone in the depths of Ubaid’s watery eyes as he offered his cup to the prince. It was all that Alcadizzar could do not to recoil from the pathetic figure.

“I—I don’t understand,” he stammered.

“He is my gift to you,” she replied. “Ubaid will accompany you to Khemri and help you in the construction of the temple.” Her perfect face clouded with a momentary frown, causing Ubaid’s bony shoulders to tremble. “Be assured, despite his wretched appearance, he is a man of many talents, and will serve you in a multitude of ways.”

It was all too much. The sense of unreality threatened to overwhelm Alcadizzar. He raised a trembling hand to his forehead. “How… how can this be?”

“The power of the blood,” she explained, her tone growing slightly more insistent. Suddenly, she was standing at Ubaid’s side, crossing the bedchamber in the space of a heartbeat. Her pale fingers gripped the rim of the heavy cup and plucked it from the servant’s palsied hands.

“Drink,” she commanded. “And all will be made clear.”

His hand moved without conscious thought, driven by years of obedience to the rites of the temple. But his eyes fell to the dark liquid shifting turgidly in the depths of the cup, and for the first time, the sight of it repelled him. Alcadizzar lurched from the bed, bare feet scuffing across the rug-covered floor as he staggered towards the open windows and the fresh sea air.

“You don’t understand,” Alcadizzar told her. He paused just before the window and drew in a deep breath. “I should have failed the trial. I meditated in the garden, and realised that I could not dedicate myself to the temple. By rights, I should have perished—and yet, here I stand!”

She did not answer at first. When she finally answered, her voice had turned hard and cold.

“You have a great destiny before you, Prince Alcadizzar,” she told him. “Your sacred bloodline and the teachings of the temple spared you—”

Alcadizzar whirled. “Then what of him?” He levelled a finger at Ubaid’s pitiful form. “Does he share in the sacred blood of kings?”

She recoiled slightly at the accusing tone of Alcadizzar’s voice. “Don’t blaspheme!” she snapped, her eyes glinting angrily.

“How then does this poor man still live?” the prince demanded. “Look how he suffers! He was an old man when I was but a boy; by rights he should have gone on to join his ancestors years ago. Yet he has aged barely a day since I first saw him. What manner of sorcery is this?”

“Enough!”

The bedchamber suddenly grew cold. Alcadizzar felt his body go rigid, as though an invisible hand had reached into his body and taken hold of his spine. The shadows deepened and within the darkness her pale skin shone like a brand. He felt his eyes drawn irresistibly to hers. Alcadizzar felt as though he were being dragged to the edge of a precipice; he gritted his teeth and fought with every ounce of his will, but slowly, inexorably, the prince was overcome.

Her voice caressed his aching skin. “Drink,” she said. The word sank into his flesh and made his bones ache with need.

One foot lurched forwards, then the other. It felt as though he were falling, drawn unerringly to the waiting cup. And yet, a small part of his mind rebelled against its pull. Terror lent his thoughts an icy clarity Alcadizzar had never known before.

“What are you?” he groaned.

Her smile was terrible. It sank into his heart like a knife.

“I am Neferata,” she said. “And I have always ruled here.”

Alcadizzar tasted metal against his lips. He could smell the bitter tang of the liquid inside the golden cup.

“You are mine, Alcadizzar,” Neferata said. “Together we shall rule Nehekhara until the end of time.”

The prince gasped. Warm fluid poured into his mouth. He choked, spilling some of the elixir down his chin, but the rest found its way down his throat. His body responded at once, veins singing and muscles swelling with vigour. Once, the sensation had exhilarated him; now he felt nothing but terror.

Worse, Alcadizzar could feel her grip on him growing stronger by the moment. Her implacable will closed about his brain like a fist, slowly crushing all thoughts of resistance.

And then, abruptly, the crushing pressure was gone. There was a muffled ringing sound as the goblet bounced across the layered rugs and a howl of bestial rage rent the darkness. Alcadizzar staggered backwards, torn from Neferata’s hypnotic grip. The shadows receded once more and he saw what had saved him at once.

It was Ubaid. The old servant had thrown himself at Neferata, catching her unawares and knocking her to the floor. He clawed at her face like an animal, his nails raking deep into her eyes. Dark ichor flowed down her pale cheeks and stained the old servant’s fingers.

Alcadizzar cried out in horror and rushed forwards, intending to save Ubaid from the creature. But the servant rooted him to the spot with a stern glare. In that instant, a small measure of the old man’s spirit seemed to return.

“Go!” Ubaid pleaded. “In the name of all the gods! Run!”

Before the prince could reply, a slender hand shot upwards and seized the old man’s throat. Ubaid’s eyes bulged; cartilage popped wetly and blood burst from his lips. Then, with a monstrous howl, Neferata reared up, jaws agape, and sank her fangs into the back of his neck. With a single, convulsive wrench, she tore the old man’s head from his shoulders in a fountain of crimson gore.

Ichor streaming from her wounded eyes, Neferata turned to Alcadizzar. A bubbling growl rose from her throat. In another moment, he would be lost.

Without thinking, the prince whirled and leapt for the open window. Neferata charged blindly after him, her nails rending the expensive rugs.

He tore through the thin curtains and lighted on the stone windowsill. A long way down spread the sloping flank of the great temple, then the walled expanse of the palace grounds. Beyond that lay the great hill, crowded with the villas of noblemen and wealthy merchants; then the sprawling coastal districts of the city itself. The great sea shone like a polished silver coin in the first, feeble rays of dawn.

Already, a plan was forming in the prince’s mind. Once he escaped the city, he would have to make his way to Rasetra. He had to spread the truth about the temple and the evil that lurked in its heart. He had to warn the great cities about Neferata.

Cold fingers clutched at his robe. With a prayer to the gods upon his lips, Alcadizzar leapt into the morning air.