—<TWO>—

Manifest Destinies

Lahmia, the City of the Dawn, in the 97th year of Djaf the Terrible
(-1320 Imperial Reckoning)

 

 

Old Jabari grinned and picked up the wooden cup with one gnarled hand. He gave it a good shake, rattling the ivory dice inside. Alcadizzar had learned to hate that sound.

The scarred Rasetran bent forwards and squinted into the depths of the cup. “Hmm,” he said cheerfully. “Interesting.”

Alcadizzar folded his arms, glaring at the dispositions of his army. Four spear companies were arrayed in a slightly curving line before the oasis, their left flank anchored by the ruins of the old caravan post, their right covered by his chariots, situated on a low dune to the south-east. His archers still held the caravan post, despite repeated attacks by enemy skirmishers. The survivors of the last attack had retreated to the edge of a dune to the north-west, where it looked like they might be re-forming for another attack. In the centre, his companies were hard-pressed by enemy infantry, and his fourth company was on the verge of breaking. His reserves—a single company of spearmen—waited in the shade of the palm trees surrounding the oasis. He hesitated on committing them just yet, for the enemy cavalry had yet to make an appearance.

Jabari set the cup aside and plucked a wooden figure from the tray at his side. “There’s a thundering of hooves off to your left!” the tutor declared. “Bronze glints in the noonday sun! There are shouts and confused cries from the ruins!” The Rasetran leaned across the wide sand table and placed the elegantly carved figure of a mounted horseman on Alcadizzar’s flank—behind the ruins of the caravan post.

The prince’s eyes widened. “Where in the name of all the gods did they come from?”

Jabari shrugged his wide shoulders in feigned bewilderment, but his deep-set eyes glinted with mischief. In his prime, he had been Rasetra’s Master of Horse, and had ridden in more than a dozen campaigns against the city’s foes. He pointed a scarred finger at the ragged, knife-like cleft carved through the sand off to the left of the ruins. “Given the shouts of surprise coming from the ruins, I’d hazard a guess that they came galloping out of that wadi.”

“What? No, that’s not possible!” Alcadizzar sputtered. “Look—the far end of the wadi’s in full view of my archers! We’d have seen them coming!”

Jabari nodded sagely. “So it would seem, so it would seem,” he replied agreeably. “Of course, there could also be a narrow branch connecting it to that larger wadi further north,” he pointed out, indicating a much wider cleft that curved behind the dunes further north. “No way to tell from here, of course. Perhaps if your scouts had explored the area more thoroughly the day before you might have learned for certain.”

Alcadizzar sighed. “Very well,” he grumbled. “How many?”

Jabari smiled and picked up the cup again. The dice rattled. “Thousands, your aides say. Many thousands!”

The prince’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Jabari always portrayed his aides as credulous nitwits. It hardly seemed realistic. He studied the sand table for a moment. The carved mahogany figure representing him and his retinue was positioned on a low dune just behind the oasis, dangerously close to the swift-moving enemy horsemen. “All right. How many can I see?”

Jabari shook the dice cup. “You can’t tell. Too much dust.”

Of course, Alcadizzar thought sourly. He studied the battlefield a moment longer, then nodded. “Shift the reserve company to the left, double-quick, and order them to attack the enemy horsemen.”

“Very well—”

“And I send two runners instead of one, to make certain that the order gets through,” Alcadizzar interjected. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

Jabari’s smile widened. “I hear and obey, great one,” he replied. The tutor rattled the dice in the cup a few more times, considered the results, and then began shifting the positions of the troops on the table.

The prince reached for the goblet of watered wine resting on the edge of the table and sipped thoughtfully, his gaze wandering to the tall windows that lined the western wall of the chamber. There were few clouds in the sky, despite the summer season; the late afternoon sun outlined the dark hills beyond Lahmia’s walls and sent shafts of mellow, golden light through the tall windowpanes. A good day to be riding, he thought wistfully, watching a caravan heading out through the city’s western gate. The traders were leaving very late in the day; possibly there had been delays loading their goods, or perhaps they’d encountered difficulties obtaining the proper permits from the city magistrates. As it was, they would be lucky to make it up the winding hill roads and onto the edge of the Golden Plain by nightfall. From there, it would be a week to cross the plain—providing they had no trouble from the bandit gangs that roamed the area—and then on to Lybaras, or Rasetra, or even farther west, past forlorn Mahrak and through the Valley of Kings to the great cities of the west. They could even be heading for Khemri, he realised, and felt a sharp pang of envy.

Some day, Alcadizzar told himself. Some day he would be ready. But when?

All roads in Nehekhara led to Lahmia, the opulent City of the Dawn. The wealth of the great city and the wise leadership of its rulers had led the Nehekharans out of the dark age wrought by Nagash the Usurper; indeed, the bloodline of its ruling dynasty was worshipped as the last vestige of divinity in a land that had been rendered bereft of its gods.

Lahmia’s power and influence was so preeminent that it had become custom for the ruling families of the other great cities to send their young heirs to be educated at the City of the Dawn. They were borne to the great city, amid much pomp and ceremony, as soon as they were old enough to travel—all except for Alcadizzar, that was. His mother Hathor, Queen of Rasetra, had journeyed to Lahmia while he was still in the womb; her pregnancy had been fraught with trouble and the royal midwives were doubtful that she would deliver her child. Desperate, the queen turned to the only source of aid left to her, the Temple of Blood. There, she held a vigil in the presence of the goddess, praying for the prince’s life.

Before the dawn—or so the story went—the high priestess of the temple came to Hathor, saying that her pleas had been answered. The goddess had spoken, and her child would survive. Every week afterwards, she was brought to the temple, where she was given an elixir to drink that had been blessed by the goddess herself. Two months later, almost to the very hour that the high priestess first spoke to her, Hathor gave birth to Alcadizzar. The queen had remained with him at the temple for a full year afterwards; then she placed him in the care of the Lahmian royal household and returned to Rasetra. Alcadizzar had never met his father, King Aten-heru, nor did he have any memories of his mother, who died in childbirth two years after returning home.

The insistent rattling of dice disturbed the prince’s reverie. Alcadizzar turned back to the table and frowned. Jabari smiled, shaking the cup. “What are your orders, great one?” he asked.

On the battlefield, Alcadizzar’s reserve company had obeyed its orders with surprising speed, altering their formation to the left and charging over the open space behind the oasis to make contact with the oncoming enemy horsemen. Now both units were locked in melee. The spearmen had suffered the worst of it so far, having borne the brunt of the cavalry’s charge, but now the horsemen’s momentum was exhausted. Given time, the infantry would gain the upper hand.

Unfortunately, time was not a luxury that Alcadizzar’s fictional army possessed. As the cavalry attack began, the rest of the enemy force renewed its attacks all along the length of the battle-line. The skirmishers had rallied and once more charged the caravan post, locking his archers in brutal hand-to-hand combat. In the centre, the enemy spear companies were driving forwards, despite terrible casualties, and his fourth company had broken at last. The survivors were retreating into the oasis and the triumphant enemy company was swinging to the right, preparing to attack his third company in the flank.

The prince took in the situation at a glance. His army was balanced on a knife edge. If he didn’t shore up the centre, he was finished. “Order the chariots off the hill,” he said to Jabari. “Have them screen their movements behind the oasis, then swing around and charge the enemy spear company on our flank. I also send one of my senior nobles to rally the broken spear company and hold them in reserve inside the oasis.”

Jabari nodded sagely and rattled his dice. He peered into the cup. “There is a problem,” he replied.

Alcadizzar gritted his teeth. There were always problems. “What now?”

Jabari pointed to his reserve company. “The commander of the unit has been killed, as well as his champion. The company is wavering.”

The prince leaned against the edge of the table, looming over the two innocuous-looking wooden figures. If the reserve company broke, the cavalry would be free to charge his chariots, preventing them from saving his centre. He had to either rally the reserve company somehow, or stop the horsemen. Preferably both. Unfortunately, he didn’t have anyone left to commit to the fight.

Alcadizzar paused. That wasn’t entirely true. He reached over the map and picked up a small, unassuming piece of wood carved in the shape of a sphinx, its fearsome head crowned with a king’s headdress.

“I and my retinue will attack the enemy horsemen in the flank,” the prince said. He repositioned the sphinx next to his embattled reserve unit.

Jabari rubbed his weathered chin. “Risky,” he said. “Very risky. You could get a sword in your guts. And there’s no one giving orders to the rest of the army while you’re off playing soldier.”

“The rest of the army’s committed.” He shrugged. “Time for me to do my part.”

The old Master of Horse shook his head. “A fine thing to say when you’re talking about pieces of wood,” he grumbled, but for a moment there was a glint of admiration in Jabari’s eye. “Very well, great one. On your head be it.”

The dice rattled. Alcadizzar’s tutor contemplated the results, like a long-lost oracle. First he moved the prince’s chariots off the hill and placed them against the rear ranks of the flanking enemy spear company. Then he bent over the map and plucked Alcadizzar’s archers from the caravan post.

“The enemy’s skirmishers have taken the caravan post,” he told the prince. “There’s no way to tell how many of them are left, because none of yours lived to tell the tale.” Before Alcadizzar could protest, Jabari turned his attention to the chariots. “Your charioteers have taken the enemy spear company by surprise; their initial charge has wrought terrible carnage on their rear ranks. So far, however, the enemy continues to hold their ground.”

Then the old tutor turned to the battle against the enemy horsemen. “Your charge here likewise surprised the enemy,” he said. “You and your bodyguard have penetrated the formation, but your foes are putting up a stiff fight. You are swiftly surrounded.”

Alcadizzar’s eyes narrowed on Jabari. “What about the spearmen?”

Jabari nodded. “Your appearance has rallied them. They are pushing back hard against the enemy horsemen. Will you withdraw at this point?”

The prince frowned. “Of course not!”

Jabari shrugged. He raised the cup. Dice rattled. He thought for a moment, then sighed.

“Most of your bodyguards have fallen, struck down by enemy swords and axes,” he said. “You’ve been wounded, but remain in the saddle. Your spearmen are fighting to reach you, but they seem a long way off.”

“What about the chariots?”

“You have no idea,” the instructor said. “They’re the least of your worries right now.”

“But—surely I can see them?” Alcadizzar stammered.

“All you can see right now is dust and rearing horses,” Jabari said. “Men are screaming. Blows are hammering at your shield and sword. It’s all you can do to stay in the saddle.”

“My bodyguards—”

“They’re gone,” Jabari said. “All of them.”

Before Alcadizzar could reply, Jabari rattled the dice again. “There is a terrible blow to your side. You tumble from the saddle. Hooves churn the ground all around you, missing you by inches.”

Alcadizzar’s eyes went wide. “Wait. That’s not what I—”

“Men loom over you, shouting and swearing from their saddles. One of them raises his sword. And then…”

The prince’s heart sank.

“There is a mighty shout from your right. Your spearmen hurl themselves at the enemy, frantic to save you from their clutches. The enemy horsemen are stunned by the ferocity of the attack and as dozens are killed, their courage breaks. They break off, fleeing back in the direction of the wadi.”

Jabari bent over the map, shifting the figure of the enemy cavalry back towards the winding gully. Alcadizzar’s mouth was dry. Belatedly, he remembered the goblet of wine in his hand and took a quick drink.

The old cavalryman continued to work. “Your men find you a horse that belonged to one of your bodyguards and put you on it.” Jabari turned his attention to the centre. “When your messengers are able to reach you again, you learn that your chariots have broken the enemy spear company.” He picked up the unit’s wooden figure and placed it at the foot of a dune well behind the rest of the enemy army. “Your chariots are now poised to strike the next enemy company in the flank.”

The prince felt a flush of triumph. “Give the order to charge!” he said. “Meanwhile, I will lead the reserve company back to the oasis and attempt to rally the broken spear company there as well.”

At that point, the battle had turned. Alcadizzar could see that his troops were stronger and had momentum on their side. The chariots drove off a second enemy company before having to withdraw themselves, but by that point he had rallied the survivors of the fourth spear company and sent both them and the reserve spear company back into the fray. Their arrival tipped the balance, forcing the rest of the enemy army to withdraw. Jabari, ever stubborn, fought a bitter rearguard action against Alcadizzar’s warriors. The sun had nearly set by the time the old tutor declared that the battle was finally over.

“A narrow victory,” Jabari declared, surveying the battlefield afterwards. “You were very lucky. Do you know what you did wrong?”

“I didn’t scout that damned wadi before the battle,” the prince said ruefully.

Jabari nodded. “That’s right. You should have never left those horsemen to get behind you like that. Always know the site of battle better than your enemy.”

Alcadizzar watched Jabari gather up the wooden figures from the table and set them on a shelf along the wall at the far side of the room. “Was it a mistake to charge the enemy horsemen?” he asked.

The old tutor paused. “What do you think?”

“It seemed like the best chance of winning the battle.”

“You could have been killed.”

The young prince shrugged. “Isn’t it a king’s duty to protect his people to the death?”

To Alcadizzar’s surprise, Jabari threw back his head and laughed. “Most kings prefer it the other way round.”

“Well, I’m not afraid to die,” Alcadizzar said haughtily.

“That’s because right now you’ve got nothing to lose,” Jabari said. “Wait until you have a wife and a family. Wait until you have real people depending on you, not blocks of wood.”

Alcadizzar folded his arms stubbornly, stung by the dismissive tone in Jabari’s voice. “It wouldn’t make a difference. When I rule Khemri, I’ll defend the city with my life.”

“Then no doubt history will remember you as a great king,” Jabari replied. “But your reign will be a short one, I fear.” He bowed to the prince. “Congratulations on another victory, Alcadizzar. By tomorrow, I expect you to be ready to continue your pursuit of the retreating army… and take steps to deal with the peasant revolt that has broken out in your capital.”

Alcadizzar returned the bow, permitting himself a fleeting smile at Jabari’s rare praise. “Thank you, Jabari. I—” Suddenly the prince stood bolt upright, his brows knitting together in a frown. “Peasant revolt? What peasant revolt?” He glanced about, searching for Jabari, but the old cavalry master had already slipped silently from the room.

With a sigh, Alcadizzar set his empty wine cup on the edge of the table. “It never ends,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Never.”

“All things end, master,” said a quiet voice from behind Alcadizzar. “Or so the priests say.”

The prince turned at the sound of the voice. A gaunt, shaven-headed man stood just to the right of the doorway at the eastern end of the room, head bowed and hands clasped at his waist. His skin was a peculiar shade of pale mahogany, with the shadowy lines of old tattoos twining sinuously along his throat and the sides of his skull.

“Ubaid,” Alcadizzar said, addressing the man. “Forgive me. I didn’t realise you were there.”

“I didn’t wish to disturb your study,” Ubaid answered. He was a man of subdued manner and indeterminate age, who had been the prince’s personal servant since he was a babe. In all that time, Alcadizzar had never known him to smile, or frown, or sneer; his expression was leaden, his movements slow and hesitant. Ubaid had the aura of a man burdened by the weight of the world. If the man had a family—or a life at all beyond the palace walls—he had never spoken of it to Alcadizzar.

“You fought well,” the servant observed. “Are you not pleased with your victory?”

Alcadizzar ran a fingertip along the metal rim of the cup, his handsome face pensive. “Every victory just leads to another set of problems,” he grumbled. “I fail to see the point anymore.”

“The point is to learn,” Ubaid answered patiently. “You are privileged to have the very best tutors in the land, master. Their wisdom is worth its weight in gold.”

“Really? It doesn’t feel like wisdom anymore, Ubaid. More like mockery.” Alcadizzar glowered at the miniature battlefield. “Jabari never lets up. None of them do. What am I doing wrong?”

“Wrong?” For the first time in Alcadizzar’s memory, Ubaid sounded faintly shocked. “How can you say such a thing, master? The blood of the divine runs through your veins. You are stronger, swifter and sharper of mind than any of your peers, and you well know it.”

“Then why am I still here?” Alcadizzar rounded on Ubaid, his dark eyes flashing. “I’m thirty years old! None of the other heirs remained past their eighteenth birthday. If I’m so much better than everyone else, why do I remain behind?”

Ubaid sighed. “Is it not obvious? Because you are meant for greater things, Alcadizzar. You alone will one day rise to the throne of Khemri, greatest of the cities of the west. For all the work your father has done to resettle and rebuild Khemri, it will fall to you to restore it to its former glory.” The servant slowly straightened, folding his thin arms across his chest. “The great queen has her eye upon you, master. She… expects great things of you.”

Alcadizzar had a hard time believing that the stiff, somnolent Queen of Lahmia paid him any mind at all. For the most part, the royal heirs lived in their own world, separate from the affairs of the court, attended by a select cadre of servants and tutors. In all his years at the palace, he’d been in her presence only a handful of times and she had scarcely spoken to him at all.

“I know very well what’s expected of me,” the prince answered. “Believe me, I do. It’s all I’ve ever known.” He swept his hand over the mock battlefield. “Tactics. Strategy. Statesmanship. History, law and commerce. Philosophy, theology and alchemy. Within these walls I’ve fought campaigns, forged alliances, crafted trade agreements and designed great buildings. I’ve learned to fight with sword and spear, learned how to ride, how to speak and sing and a hundred other things I can’t ever imagine having a use for.” He leaned against the table and sighed. “I’m ready, Ubaid. I know I am. Khemri is waiting for me. When will the queen let me go?”

The servant joined Alcadizzar at the table. He leaned forwards slightly, studying the prince’s troubled face. “A delegation from Rasetra arrived today, led by your uncle Khenti. He was in audience with the queen all afternoon.”

Alcadizzar scowled. He’d never met Khenti, but he knew from Jabari that his uncle was one of Rasetra’s most powerful nobles, and a force to be reckoned with. “What does he want?”

“Why, you, of course,” Ubaid replied. A strange expression passed like a shadow across the servant’s face. “He must be a very persuasive man. I’ve been told to prepare you for a second audience later tonight.”

Alcadizzar straightened, pulse quickening. “An audience? In the royal court?” Such a thing was rare and portentous indeed.

Ubaid shook his head. “No, master. At the Temple of Blood.” The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You and your uncle have been summoned by the high priestess herself.”

 

“For you, holy one,” the priestess said, her voice muffled by the exquisite golden mask she wore. She bowed her head, lifting the golden goblet to Neferata with both hands. “An offer of love and life eternal.”

Neferata favoured the priestess with a faint smile. She reached out with long, cold fingers and plucked the goblet from the supplicant’s hands. The thin metal was deliciously warm to the touch. As always, the thirst cut through her like a knife. No matter how many nights went by, it never lost its razor edge.

Carefully, with perfect, unnatural grace, she raised the cup to her lips. Hot and coppery, yet ineffably sweet, it suffused her entire body in moments, filling it with heat and strength. She drank slowly but steadily, savouring the sensations of mortal life. When she was done, she licked a stray speck of red from the goblet’s rim with the tip of her tongue, then handed back the empty vessel. She could already feel the blush of vigour fading like heat seeping from the sides of a cooling kettle. In just a few hours the thirst would return, as sharp and cruel as ever.

“This isn’t wise,” said Lord Ankhat, scowling into the depths of his own cup. In life, he had been a handsome, charismatic nobleman, with a charming smile and dark, piercing eyes. Slightly shorter than most Nehekharans, but trim and physically fit even into middle age, he acted with the casual authority of a man born to wealth and power. “The Rasetrans are out of patience. Just give them the damned boy and be done with it.”

The nobleman’s rich, commanding voice echoed in the dimly lit vault of the temple’s inner sanctum. Above them, lit by shafts of moonlight that filtered through narrow gaps in the chamber’s ceiling, rose the alabaster statue of Asaph, goddess of love and magic and ancient patron of the city itself. The blessings of the gods had allowed the Nehekharans to prosper amongst the desert sands for thousands of years, and in all that time, the sacred covenant between man and the divine had been made flesh in the eldest daughters of the Lahmian royal bloodline. Though the covenant had been broken centuries ago during the war against the Usurper, the power of the blood remained, and it was this that the temple purported to venerate.

In truth, the temple served as the secret heart of Lahmia’s de facto empire, and provided both fortress and refuge for its immortal masters. When Nagash was defeated at the fall of Mahrak, more than four hundred years ago, the rebel kings of the east had pursued the Usurper’s defeated army back to Khemri. The rulers of Rasetra and Lybaras meant to end Nagash’s reign of terror for all time, but their erstwhile ally, young King Lamashizzar of Lahmia, had different plans. With the aid of the traitor Arkhan the Black, Lamashizzar found the blasphemous Tomes of Nagash and smuggled them out of the ruined city. The King of Lahmia sought the secrets of eternal life, but in the end his schemes were undone by his young queen, who had mastered Nagash’s arts more swiftly than he. Though Lamashizzar had struck first, poisoning Neferata with the venom of the long-lost sphinx, she had been reborn through a combination of dark sorcery and blood.

With a gesture from Neferata, the priestess bearing the cup withdrew. She turned to a second priestess, who waited with downcast eyes and held a curved mask of beaten gold in her hands. The features of the mask were a cold reflection of Neferata’s own, crafted by master artisans in her youth to conceal her divine beauty from unworthy eyes. She had been forced to wear it every day of her life when in public and, like her forebears, she was meant to wear it to her tomb. Neferata closed her eyes as the cool metal was pressed to her face, reminded, as she always was, of her own death, centuries before.

“Alcadizzar is not ready. Not yet,” she replied. Her tone was smooth and melodic, as soothing as cool water in the desert. It was not the sort of tone a sane man could resist, no matter what he felt in his heart, but Ankhat was unmoved.

“Then you’re flirting with war,” the nobleman said darkly. “Khenti all but spat at the queen’s feet. He demanded we hand over Alcadizzar immediately. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Neferata straightened swiftly and glared at Ankhat. Her full lips parted behind the concealing mask, revealing a pair of curved, leonine fangs. Though he couldn’t see her expression, the force of her stare caused the immortal to stiffen.

“You forget who rules here, Ankhat.” Her voice lowered to a soft growl. “Khenti can say all he likes to the queen. If he wants Alcadizzar, he will have to deal with me.”

A figure stirred from the shadows near the entrance to the sanctum. Lord Ushoran came forwards, holding his own empty cup loosely in his hand. Though distantly related to the royal family and in life a powerful nobleman himself, Ushoran was nothing like the dynamic, charming Ankhat. He was of average height, with bland, average features that failed to leave a lasting impression in the mind. The Lord of Masks was a man who loved his intrigues, and over the centuries his network of spies had spread all over Nehekhara.

“It is not merely Khenti that you contend with,” Ushoran said. “My agents in Rasetra tell me that Aten-heru has warned his nobles that they could be called to arms at any moment. What is more, the king has sent a number of letters to the rulers of Lybaras, Ka-Sabar—even far-off Zandri.” He shrugged. “It’s possible that Aten-heru expects you to refuse him once again. It would give him something to rally the other cities around and force a confrontation between us and a coalition of most of the other great cities.”

“If that happens, we would be undone,” Ankhat declared. “We have no means of enforcing our trade agreements and loan obligations at this point, also the other cities have grown increasingly resentful of the gold they pay us every year. Zandri has been testing our resolve for years now; if Aten-heru declares he’ll no longer honour his obligations to us, the other cities will surely follow.”

“And what of the army?” Neferata demanded. “It’s been five years. Are they ready to fight, or not?”

Ankhat sighed. “The process of rebuilding is a slow one. We’ve restored the army to its former size, but the troops are inexperienced. They’re a credible threat to a weak city like Lybaras or Mahrak, but the Rasetrans are another matter entirely.”

Neferata beckoned, and another group of priestesses hurried from the shadows to set a carved mahogany chair at the feet of the great statue. There were never more than three hundred priestesses and acolytes in the temple at any time, and the highest of the orders served as her personal handmaidens. They were entirely her creatures, bound by Neferata’s seductive allure and her implacable will. She settled lightly into the chair and allowed the priestesses to hover about her, arranging her golden vestments and tugging at the sleeves of her white silk robe.

“Alcadizzar must remain, whether Khenti wishes it or not,” she told the two lords. “And the Rasetrans will have no choice but to accept it. You will see.” She waved the priestesses away. “Now go. Khenti and his retainers are drawing near.”

Ushoran withdrew into the shadows without a word. Ankhat remained a moment longer, his eyes glinting angrily.

“Your obsession with this man is going to destroy us all,” he said to her. “You mark my words, Neferata. One day, Lahmia will burn, and Alcadizzar will be the cause.”

Neferata straightened, swift as an adder, but before she could snarl a reply Ankhat was gone. Moments later, the great doors of the outer sanctum swung silently open to admit Lord Khenti and his retinue.

Khenti was a man of middle years, but like nearly all of Rasetra’s noblemen, he was still in fighting trim. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a swordsman’s thick wrists and sinewy forearms, and a blunt, pugnacious face that harked back to Rakh-amn-hotep, the city’s legendary warrior-king.

Neferata noted with some amusement that Khenti had chosen to attend the audience in full battledress; a heavy iron scale vest, no doubt obtained at great expense from the new foundries at Ka-Sabar, worn over a thick vest and calf-length kilt of thunder-lizard hide. His left hand rested on the worn hilt of a heavy khopesh sheathed at his hip and his dark eyes swept the shadows of the sanctum, as though expecting some kind of ambush. She studied the nobleman’s belligerent expression and smiled mirthlessly, running her tongue along the needle-like tips of her fangs.

“Enter and be welcome,” she said to the Rasetrans. Her rich voice resonated through the sanctum, augmented only slightly by the power in her veins. Khenti’s bodyguards slowed their swift pace almost at once, their shoulders relaxing and their hands sliding from the hilts of their weapons. Their master, however, was apparently made of sterner stuff; if anything, Khenti’s suspicious scowl only deepened, though he no longer had eyes for anything but Neferata.

“Be at peace, and know that the power of the divine abides in the blood of the chosen,” she continued, focussing a bit more of her attention on Khenti. This close, she could hear the whisper of blood in his veins and measure the drumbeat of his heart. “You honour us with your presence, Lord Khenti. Have you an offering to propitiate the memory of the gods?”

The nobleman grunted. “I made my offerings to Ptra at noontime,” he said disdainfully, “and at a proper temple, down in the city.”

Neferata gave a faint nod. Though the sacred covenant had been broken and the holy city of Mahrak ravaged during the war with the Usurper, the temples to the gods still lingered in most of the great cities. Attempts to spread Lahmia’s cult across Nehekhara had so far met with little success. “It is virtuous to respect the old ways,” she replied neutrally.

Khenti drew himself straighter, chin raised defiantly. “Would that your queen did as well!” he declared. “Bad enough that Lahmia holds the royal heirs of the other cities as hostage to its greed; now it denies Khemri its rightful king!”

Neferata folded her hands in her lap. “Greed, my lord?” she said. Her smile widened. “Am I mistaken, or was Khemri not rebuilt with Lahmian gold?”

Khenti folded his muscular arms. “Don’t play games of rhetoric with me, priestess,” he growled. “Either the Queen of Lahmia gives up Alcadizzar, or else she admits that she’s holding him as a prisoner and accepts the consequences of her mistake.”

Neferata chuckled. Aten-heru had been a fool to send Khenti, she thought. This was going to be simpler than she’d imagined. “Blunt, but well said,” she told the Rasetran. “I would expect no less from a man such as yourself.” She laced the words with another slight caress of power and watched Khenti relax slightly. He believed that he had the upper hand now. With the right words, she could make him believe anything she wished.

“The hour grows late, priestess,” Khenti said. “Why is it you wished to see me?”

Neferata studied the Rasetran thoughtfully. “You came here seeking the release of Prince Alcadizzar,” she said carefully. “But there has been a misunderstanding, my lord. The queen did not speak of it, because it was not her place to do so.”

Khenti frowned. “Not her place?”

She met his scowl coolly. “Prince Alcadizzar is not a guest of the royal house. For the last twelve years, he has remained in Lahmia at the behest of the temple.”

For a moment, the Rasetran was too stunned to speak. “The temple? How in the name of all the gods—”

“All will be explained in due course,” Neferata said, forestalling Khenti’s outrage with an upraised hand. “We await only the arrival of the prince. And see—he comes, even now.”

She could hear Alcadizzar’s approach through the temple’s antechamber; swift, sure steps, light and precise as a dancer’s. Neferata could read much into those movements; after thirty years, she knew the prince more intimately than any lover. The prince was in high spirits, hastening to the audience with eagerness and keen interest. She straightened slightly, listening to the long, powerful drumbeats of Alcadizzar’s heart, and felt her own pulse quicken in response.

He swept into the outer sanctum like a summer storm. The still air was suddenly tense with pent-up energy; heads turned at once, seeking the source. A stir went through the Rasetrans. Khenti’s bodyguards sank to their knees at once, several of the warriors crying out in wonder at the sight of the prince. Khenti gaped at Alcadizzar for a moment, his eyes widening in disbelief. Then, with a shout of joy he strode forwards and gripped the prince’s forearms in greeting.

Alcadizzar favoured Khenti and the bodyguards with one of his dazzling smiles. Taller even than Khenti and powerfully built, his presence filled the shadowy chamber with warmth, vitality and strength. Such was his charm that within moments the Rasetrans were smiling and laughing as though in the presence of a long-lost friend.

“Look at you!” Khenti marvelled, staring up at his nephew’s face. He gripped Alcadizzar’s muscular forearms tighter, as though fearful that the prince might be a mirage. “Big as a damned thunder-lizard!” He rotated the prince’s arms and studied his hands. “You’ve been training hard, I see. Good.” The nobleman frowned questioningly. “What about your studies? Has that old horse Jabari been keeping you busy?”

Alcadizzar chuckled. “He vexes me every single day, uncle.”

“Good, good!” Khenti said with a laugh. “There’s no better campaigner in all of Nehekhara. If you can hold your own against the likes of him, there’s no army in the land you can’t defeat.”

“I can well believe it,” the prince replied. Absently, he waved for the bodyguards to rise from the floor. The warriors responded at once, admiration evident in their eyes. Neferata watched the exchange with bemusement, as she always did when Alcadizzar was in the company of lesser mortals. Though he’d been exhaustively educated in the social arts, the prince still had a disturbing tendency to ignore propriety and treat everyone, even servants, as his equals. It was degrading to watch, but Alcadizzar didn’t care in the least, and the common folk worshipped him for it. Neferata couldn’t fathom it; it was the one aspect of his personality that remained a complete mystery to her.

“How is my father?” the prince asked. Alcadizzar gave Khenti a wink. “He hasn’t forgotten about me, has he?”

“Certainly not!” Khenti said. “He thinks of you always and awaits the day of your homecoming.” The nobleman seemed to remember Neferata, and turned back to the dais. His good humour evaporated like rain on the desert sands. “A homecoming that’s twelve years overdue.”

“Indeed,” Neferata said. She laced the word with power and savoured its effect on the assembled men. They responded to her at once, forgetting their high spirits and focussing on her once more. All except Alcadizzar. The prince favoured her with a bemused expression and one of his intense, curious stares, as though she were a puzzle that demanded a solution.

The intensity of his stare transfixed her. The power of his intellect was almost tangible, gripping her like a pair of invisible hands. Her dead heart raced. Was this how mortals felt when she addressed them? Did they feel this mixture of anxiety and exaltation?

Here was a man to give even the immortals pause, like one of the great heroes from Nehekharan legend. But it wasn’t the power of the gods that coursed like lightning through Alcadizzar’s veins, but Neferata’s own dark magic. While he was still in the womb, his mother had been persuaded to drink an elixir of youth and vigour formulated by Neferata herself. It had made Alcadizzar a virtual god among men, like the mythical Ushabti of ancient times. Now, at last, his abilities were nearly at their peak. The time had come to reveal the destiny that awaited him—one she had built painstakingly for the last thirty years.

“Welcome to the Temple of Blood, great prince,” she said, nodding her head in greeting. “It gives me great joy to see you here.” She extended her hand and pointed to a spot on the stone floor, not far from where Alcadizzar stood. “It was not so long ago that your blessed mother knelt here and prayed to the goddess to bless you with health and good fortune.”

Alcadizzar nodded sombrely. “Yes. I’ve heard the tale.”

“She was very brave,” Neferata said, affecting as much warmth in her voice as she could. She had to be careful with the prince; she knew from experience that his perceptions were much keener than normal men. “Your mother was in ill health, but she braved the long journey from Rasetra to pray here, at the temple, in hopes of saving your life.” Neferata inclined her head to Khenti. “You remember, don’t you, my lord?”

Khenti’s pugnacious face turned pinched, as though he’d bit into a lemon. “Aye, I recall,” he said, disapproving of the deed but unwilling to speak ill of the dead.

Neferata smiled behind her mask. “The goddess heard your mother’s plea and was moved.” She gestured towards Alcadizzar with a sweep of her hand. “And look at the man you have become! There is not another like you in all of Nehekhara, Prince Alcadizzar. She has seen to that. Now it is incumbent upon you to honour the great gifts that you have been given.”

Khenti frowned. He opened his mouth to protest, but Alcadizzar unintentionally cut him off.

“I’m deeply aware of my obligations to the people of Khemri,” the prince said, in that same, sombre tone. “I’ve spent my entire life preparing for the day I become king.”

“So you have,” Neferata said, and there was no need to manufacture the pride in her voice. “You will be a great king, Alcadizzar. But we at the temple believe that you are destined for much more.”

“Destined for what?” Khenti asked, having recovered his composure.

Neferata leaned back in her chair and fixed Alcadizzar with a steady gaze. “What do you know of the Temple of Blood, my prince?”

Alcadizzar answered at once. “The temple is based on the premise that the gods and their gifts have been taken from us, but the bloodlines they have blessed throughout Nehekhara’s history remain. They are our sole remaining connection to the divine.”

“Preposterous,” Khenti sneered.

“And yet the proof stands before you,” Neferata said. “Alcadizzar’s mother came here after she’d spent months praying in vain at the old temples of Rasetra. It was here that her prayers were answered, were they not?”

Khenti’s eyes narrowed, but he made no attempt to gainsay her. Alcadizzar, on the other hand, rubbed his chin thoughtfully and said, “If the gods no longer take an active hand in our affairs, how is it that the goddess answered my mother’s prayers?”

Neferata nodded approvingly. “Remember, oh prince, the gods are gone, but the sacred bloodlines remain. Earlier, I spoke in figurative terms. The truth is that your mother spoke not to the goddess, but to the nascent power of the blood running through your veins.”

“I’m descended from a sacred bloodline?” Alcadizzar replied, both intrigued and dubious at the same time.

“One of the greatest and most venerated of all,” Neferata replied. “We suspected as much when you were born, but it has taken many years to produce the evidence.”

She clapped her hands gently and a priestess appeared from the shadows, bearing a newly bound book in her hands. The priestess set the expensive tome in the prince’s hands, bowed deeply, and then withdrew.

“Naturally, both of you are well familiar with the sacred ties between Lahmia and Khemri,” Neferata began. “Since the time of Settra the Magnificent, the kings of the Living City have wed the eldest daughters of the Lahmian royal house, who were the living embodiment of the covenant with the gods.”

Alcadizzar opened the tome reverently and began to peruse its pages. “So the blood of the royal heirs of Khemri was made sacred as well.”

“Just so,” Neferata replied. “And the Lahmian royal house has gone to great pains to record each and every family line that has been produced as a result. The documents have been maintained here at the palace for many hundreds of years.”

Neferata considered the book in Alcadizzar’s hands. The information within couldn’t be proven beyond a shadow of a doubt, but Lord Ushoran was certain that it would survive all but the most learned scrutiny. All that mattered to her was that Alcadizzar himself believed it.

“Now, Rasetra’s origins are well known; the city was originally a colony of distant Khemri, founded during the reign of King Khetep, some four-and-a-half centuries ago.” During the time of my father, she thought. Neferata still remembered how King Lamasheptra had scoffed at the thought of the small settlement at the edge of the deadly southern jungle. It was their constant, ruthless struggle for survival that had transformed them into a warrior culture both respected and feared throughout Nehekhara.

“When King Khetep made ready to return home, he chose one of his ablest lieutenants, a nobleman named Ur-Amnet, to govern the new settlement. His son, Mukhtail, became the first king of Rasetra, and every king that followed is descended from his line.”

Now Khenti’s interest was piqued as well. “But Ur-Amnet was not part of Khemri’s royal house,” he said. “His family was a noble one, but its lineage uncertain.”

“Until now,” Neferata replied. “We searched the records here at Lahmia and despatched agents to search for confirmation among the old temples at Khemri. Ur-Amnet is descended from Hapt-amn-koreb, who was a great warrior and Master of Horse to the mighty King Nemuret. Hapt-amn-koreb’s lineage is murkier still, but after many years of searching it was determined why—he was descended from Amenophis, fifth son of Settra the Magnificent.”

Alcadizzar closed his eyes for a moment. “Amenophis was disowned by Settra during the tenth year of his reign,” he said, calling upon his years of study.

“Correct. He was suspected of assassinating his older brother Djoser. Though it was never proved, Settra cast him out nonetheless. But that is irrelevant. The bloodline remains true. You, Alcadizzar, bear the ancient birthright of the gods.”

“What does this mean?” Khenti asked, taking the bait.

“That depends on Prince Alcadizzar,” Neferata replied. “There is a unique opportunity here to restore Khemri—and by extension, all of Nehekhara—to a measure of the glory it once possessed. If the prince proved himself worthy, we could witness the dawn of a new golden age of peace and prosperity, and put the dark memory of Nagash behind us forever.”

Alcadizzar raised his head from the book. “What do you propose?”

Neferata leaned forwards. “A new union,” she said. “One not of flesh, but of spirit. Lahmia and Khemri can be united once more by the veneration of our shared bloodline.”

Khenti’s frown deepened. “No, I don’t think—” but Alcadizzar placed a hand on his shoulder and the older Rasetran fell silent.

“What would Khemri stand to gain from such a union?”

“Why, all of the west,” Neferata said. “Right now, Lahmia rules Nehekhara in all but name. What I propose is to divide the land between us. The trade and loan obligations of Zandri, Numas and Ka-Sabar would be placed in your hands. It would ensure Khemri’s growth and prosperity for centuries, and restore a substantial measure of its political power in a single stroke.”

That got even Khenti’s attention. He looked to Alcadizzar, who’d turned pensive once more.

“What would you require of me in return?”

“For the union to be consummated, you must pledge yourself to the temple,” Neferata said. “Lahmia will have its high priestess, and Khemri its priest king.”

The prince sighed inwardly. “How long would such an initiation take?”

Neferata felt a rush of triumph. She knew him better than he knew himself. “That is up to you, of course,” she said. “For most initiates, the path to the temple’s highest rank is a long and difficult one. What might take them a lifetime, you could accomplish in a decade or less.”

“A decade!” Khenti turned to the prince. “Khemri needs you now, great one. This… this is too much!”

“Khenti is perhaps right,” Neferata said slowly. Her eyes never left Alcadizzar’s. “It is a great deal to ask of any man. But the potential is equally great, is it not?”

The prince glanced at Khenti’s worried face. “What if I refuse?”

“Then your time here in Lahmia will be at an end,” she replied.

“I’m… free to go?”

“Of course,” Neferata said. “The choice is yours, oh prince. Do as you think best for your city and your people.”

Khenti gripped Alcadizzar’s shoulders and turned the younger man to face him. “You can’t seriously be considering this,” he said. “It’s over! You’re free! Come with me now, and we can be on the road to Rasetra by dawn!”

Alcadizzar stared down at his uncle, and Neferata could see the longing in his eyes. For a moment, her heart went out to him; she knew all too well what it was like to live as a prisoner, trapped in a gilded cage. One day he will thank me, though, she told herself. This is not just for me, or even for him, but for all of Nehekhara.

“What sort of king would I be if I put my own selfishness ahead of my city’s future?” Alcadizzar said. His voice was heavy with regret, but he gripped his uncle’s arms tightly. “Khemri has survived for decades without me. It will last for a few years more.”

The prince turned to Neferata and bowed his head. “I accept your offer,” he told her. “Let Khemri and Lahmia be united once more.”

Neferata rose from her chair and joined Alcadizzar. Beneath the mask, her cheeks were wet with crimson tears as she placed a hand on his cheek. His skin felt hot beneath her fingers. She could feel the blood coursing through the flesh beneath. The thirst cut through her, slicing deep into her heart.

“As you wish, oh prince,” she said softly.