—<SIX>—

Initiation Rites

Lahmia, the City of the Dawn, in the 99th year of Asaph the Beautiful
(-1295 Imperial Reckoning)

A dozen pale, blood-streaked hands held the golden goblet aloft. The high priestesses lay in a tight circle at the foot of the alabaster goddess, their golden faces upturned. Drops of red speckled their smooth cheeks and dappled the corners of their eyes like tears. Their chanting swelled, stoked to a near-ecstatic pitch by the curling clouds of lotus smoke that permeated the inner sanctum. As the rite neared its climax, Neferata, standing upon the dais, spread her arms wide and added her voice to the chorus. But it wasn’t the goddess she sang to; the sole object of her attention was the handsome young man who stood before the offered cup, head bowed and hands clasped across his chest.

Her pulse raced as she watched Alcadizzar gather his focus and begin to chant. His rich, deep voice blended harmoniously with the rising and falling notes of the priestesses’ chorus, increasing its power and urgency. At the proper moment, the prince raised his head and spread his arms in a pose identical to Neferata’s. Alcadizzar’s dark eyes met hers, and the intensity of his stare sent a frisson of desire through her.

The wide sleeves of the prince’s white robe had slid back to his elbows, revealing tanned, muscular forearms and the thick wrists of a practiced swordsman. Reflected moonlight glinted icily off the curved dagger in his right hand. Still staring deeply into Neferata’s eyes, he placed the point of the dagger against his left wrist and slowly drew it downwards. The razor-edged blade cut cleanly through the flesh, drawing a thin line halfway to the prince’s elbow. The blood came a heartbeat later, welling up from the cut and spilling in thick streams down Alcadizzar’s arm.

“The glory of the goddess!” cried the priestesses, as the prince’s blood fell heavily into the goblet. “Behold the gift of Asaph!”

A shiver went through Neferata as she watched the prince’s lifeblood mingle with the offerings of the high priestesses. Her chest heaved, drawing in breath and expelling it in short, ragged gasps. Behind her ancient mask, her mouth opened slightly, revealing the tips of her leonine fangs.

Alcadizzar bled into the goblet, adding to the offerings there until the cup was nearly brimming full. Then he took the goblet from the priestesses and they fell away to either side, opening a path for him to ascend the dais and offer the cup to Neferata.

“For you, holy one,” he intoned. “An offer of love and life eternal.”

Neferata bowed her head solemnly, though her heart was racing and her body ached with sudden thirst. With slow, ceremonial restraint, she reached out to the prince and took the warm cup from his hands. Sighing faintly, she brought the goblet close. With a practiced motion, she shifted her mask slightly and raised the cup to her lips. The taste of the blood sent waves of delicious heat pulsing through her body. Knowing that part of its power came from Alcadizzar himself only added to its savour.

When she was finished, she raised the empty cup and gazed lovingly on Alcadizzar and the cultists. The prince closed his eyes and swayed slightly under the full weight of her stare. The priestesses cried out in exultation; several succumbed completely, collapsing onto the floor in a dead faint.

Neferata beckoned, and a high priestess emerged from the shadows to the right of the dais with another cup held carefully in her hands. At the same time, a second high priestess emerged from the left, bearing an ornately carved wooden box. The final act of the initiation was at hand.

The immortal took the cup from the high priestess, exchanging it for the empty goblet in her hand. It brimmed with a dark red elixir crafted from Neferata’s own vital fluid. She turned back to Alcadizzar and offered him the cup.

“Drink, faithful servant,” she said, her words crackling with power. “Drink, and know the power of the goddess herself.”

The prince opened his eyes. With solemn ceremony, he accepted the cup, and raised it reverently to the white face of Asaph. His gaze then fell to Neferata, and he brought the cup to his lips. In one long draught, he drained the goblet to the dregs.

As near to her as Alcadizzar was, Neferata could feel the transformative effects of the elixir on his body. The prince’s heart raced and his muscles swelled with vigour. Heat radiated from him like metal drawn from the forge. Though he had partaken of the elixir almost a dozen times, first as an initiate and later as a priest of the temple, he had never had so much at once. The effect on him was profound. His mouth fell open and his eyes widened in shock. A low, almost bestial groan rose from his throat. He shuddered, his muscles tightening until every tendon stood out like taut cords beneath his skin.

Neferata could feel the torrent of emotions raging through the prince, tasting the fear, the wonder and the ecstasy as though they were her own. She felt it through the bond forged by the elixir, as though she and Alcadizzar now shared the same heart and mind. The intensity of the connection stunned her as well; for a moment she was as stricken as he was. It was an intimacy unlike anything she had known before.

They stared at one another for what felt like an eternity. At last, Neferata took a long breath and said, “The blessings of the goddess fill you, Alcadizzar. Can you not feel the power of Asaph’s gift?”

Alcadizzar replied in a subdued voice. “I do, holy one.”

“You are one with the divine, now,” she said. “Do you accept what you have been given, with all your heart?”

“I do.”

“Then show us your devotion,” she said. “Prepare yourself.”

The prince nodded solemnly. He handed the empty goblet back to the high priestess and then, moving as though in a dream, he unbelted his robe and let it fall to the floor. As he did, Neferata turned to the high priestess carrying the box and gestured for her to come forwards. She opened the cedar lid and reached inside.

Clad now only in britches, Alcadizzar waited with his hands at his sides, breathing deep, calming breaths. Already, the wound on his arm had closed, thanks to the power of the elixir. Now he closed his eyes and prepared himself for the trial to come.

Neferata gently lifted out the contents of the box. The asp was blacker than night and around three feet long. In ancient times, the queens of Lahmia held court with two live asps curled about their wrists as a sign of Asaph’s favour. The serpent obediently wound about her forearm and coiled a third of its length upon her open palm. Its unblinking eyes glittered like chips of onyx and it tasted the air with a flickering, blue-black tongue as Neferata turned to face the prince once more.

She extended her hand to him. “Prove to us your devotion,” she said. “Trust in Asaph’s blessing, and you will prevail.”

Alcadizzar opened his eyes. His breathing slowed and his body grew still. She could sense the tightly harnessed energies of the elixir humming like plucked chords along his lean, muscular limbs. Slowly, gracefully, he raised his right hand, palm out, and extended it towards the coiled serpent.

At once, Neferata felt the asp grow tense. The serpent’s head drew back slightly as the prince’s hand came closer. The asp was one of the swiftest and deadliest serpents in all Nehekhara; a single bite could kill a grown man in less than a minute. But Alcadizzar showed no fear. For the last twenty-five years he had devoted himself to the teachings of the temple, learning through meditation and intense physical training how to harness the full power of both body and mind. The training was not unlike that which the great Ushabti received in ancient times; only instead of calling upon the blessings of the gods, Alcadizzar drew upon the power of Neferata’s elixir.

Inch by inch, the prince’s hand drew closer to the serpent. The asp’s coils slithered across Neferata’s palm, gathering tightly together. Its tongue angrily lashed the air. And then, without warning, it struck.

The asp’s head darted forwards, almost too fast for Neferata’s eye to follow. It closed the distance between her and the prince faster than the blink of an eye, mouth open and fangs distended.

Alcadizzar’s hand snapped shut—and suddenly the asp spasmed, writhing impotently in his iron grip. As Neferata watched, the prince bent his head and kissed the serpent gently atop its head, and then carefully unwound the rest of its length from her arm.

“Asaph be praised,” she said softly, feeling a flush of heat across her face and down her slender neck. Quickly she mastered herself as Alcadizzar placed the asp back in its box. “Bear witness, sisters!” she called to the other priestesses. “The goddess has shown her favour! Behold Alcadizzar, the temple’s first high priest!”

With cries of joy, the high priestesses rose up and gathered around the prince. They touched him lightly and whispered their congratulations as a new robe of purest samite was draped about his broad shoulders. He nodded his head and smiled a little sheepishly at the masked women, clearly uncomfortable being at the centre of such intimate female attention.

Neferata dismissed the priestesses with an unspoken command; they scattered like a flock of birds, vanishing quietly into the shadows. She stepped forwards and held out her hand to Alcadizzar.

“You are one of us now,” she said. “It is time you were welcomed into the inner sanctum.”

The prince, his face flushed with triumph, gave Neferata a dazzling smile and placed his hand in hers. His eyes widened faintly in surprise.

“Your skin,” he said. “It’s so cold. Are you well, holy one?”

“I have never been better. Come.”

Pulling gently on his hand, Neferata led him from the dais and into the shadows behind the statue of the goddess. Her hand found the small wooden door set into the wall and pushed it open. Orange lamplight spilled through the doorway from the corridor beyond.

They walked in silence for a time, down the narrow, dusty passageways and through the richly appointed chambers of the inner sanctum. Alcadizzar studied each room with interest, drinking in every detail of his surroundings.

“This part of the temple is much older than the rest,” he observed, brushing his fingertips along the curved flank of a marble pillar.

Neferata nodded approvingly. “So it is. We are walking in what was once the Women’s Palace. Now these chambers are set aside for the comfort and edification of the temple’s higher orders.”

“Hmpf,” the prince replied with a frown. “A far cry from the bare walls and the wooden cot of an initiate’s cell.”

“An initiate’s purpose is to learn, not luxuriate,” Neferata replied. “Now that you’re enlightened, you may reap the rewards of your hard work and dedication.”

They passed through a long, columned gallery and found themselves at the edge of the former palace’s old garden. Once it had been a carefully manicured refuge, with profusions of gorgeous, exotic plants, rambling gravel pathways and serene reflecting pools. Now, after centuries of benign neglect, it was a dense wilderness of dark fronds, glossy native vines and stands of Eastern bamboo. Frogs chirped to one another in the darkness, while late-summer cicadas droned from the depths of the bamboo groves.

New pathways had been worn through the undergrowth over the decades, lit by the faint glow of the moon. Neferata led the prince down one such track, navigating more by memory than eyesight. After several minutes, they emerged at the centre of the garden.

Here, the area had been kept mostly clear and remained much as it had been centuries before. A dense carpet of soft, springy grass surrounded a broad, deep pool, ringed by old, well-tended ornamental trees. Neru was bright and full overhead, transforming the surface of the pond to quicksilver.

Neferata let go of Alcadizzar’s hand and walked towards the still water. The tips of the thick grasses brushed her feet through the gaps in her sandals. “This has always been one of my favourite places,” she said softly. So many memories, she thought, their edges blurring now with the passage of time. Neferata could not say for sure whether that was a blessing or a curse. “The temple at Khemri will need a place like this as well. Remember that, when you lay its foundations.”

“That’s a long way away,” the prince said with a sigh. “It’s possible that the temple won’t even be completed in my lifetime.”

Neferata laughed at the notion. “Don’t be foolish. Of course it will!” She turned back to him. “Look at how far you’ve come since joining the temple. In just a few more years, you’ll be ready for the final initiation, and then the west will be yours.”

Alcadizzar walked towards the moonlit pool, his face pensive. “But for how long?” he asked. “I’m fifty-five years old. There is so much to do. I hardly know where to begin.”

Neferata joined him at the edge of the pool. “Look at you,” she said, pointing to his reflection. “Still as young and handsome as ever. That’s the power of the divine, Alcadizzar. In ancient times, our people lived a much longer span of years. A man wasn’t considered to be in his prime until he was eighty. You’ll enjoy a life at least as long,” she said to him, “as a hierophant of the temple, perhaps even longer.”

The prince looked at her wonderingly. “Is such a thing possible?”

Neferata smiled behind her mask. “That depends upon you, my prince. Tell me, if you could rule Khemri for a hundred years, what would you do?”

Alcadizzar smiled. “Rebuild the city, for a start. There are still entire districts inhabited by nothing more than rats.” He folded his arms. “After that, focus on the docks, and get the river trade with Zandri going again. If Lahmia would permit it, I’d build a trading post along the river, where it touches the Golden Plain to the north-west of here. That would bring goods to the west far quicker than the overland route through the mountains.”

“And avoid all those troublesome tolls passing the goods through Quatar,” Neferata noted wryly.

“There is that,” the prince answered slyly. “After that… I don’t know. There are so many things I’d like to do. Build a collegium, like the one at Lybaras, and a great library that would serve scholars and citizens alike.” His smile widened and his voice grew more animated as he continued. “I’d rebuild the army, of course, and fund expeditions to explore the lands beyond Nehekhara. And of course there’s the matter of stemming the growth of the Great Desert…” He spread his hands and gave a shrug. “You see? I don’t even think a century would be enough.”

Neferata slipped her arm around the prince’s broad shoulders. “Two centuries, then,” she whispered. “Or five. There are… higher mysteries… that you have not yet plumbed, Alcadizzar. There is so much more I can teach you, if you are willing. Perhaps… perhaps you need not ever die at all.” She leaned close to him, intoxicated by his warmth. “Think of it. You would be greater than Settra himself!”

“Or as terrible as Nagash.”

The woman’s voice was melodious and yet forbidding, as cold and pure as the silvery tones of a bell. Alcadizzar and Neferata jolted apart like a pair of guilty young lovers, searching amid the surrounding trees for the source of the sound.

A lithe figure glided from the shadows on the far side of the glimmering pond. She was dressed in fine silken robes from the lands of the Far East and moved with an artful, almost mesmerising grace as she stepped into the moonlight. Her porcelain features were delicate and exotic, with high, rounded cheekbones and large, oval-shaped eyes. Jade pins glowed from her raven-black hair, bound tightly atop her head to reveal the slender curve of her throat. After spending so many years among the masked priestesses of the temple, the woman’s uncovered face both disturbed and fascinated Alcadizzar.

“Death is what separates mankind from the gods, young prince,” the woman said. “And for good reason. Immortality brings us nothing but misery.”

Neferata growled deep in her throat, like an angry lioness. “Naaima!” she spat. “What is the meaning of this?”

Suddenly, the serene atmosphere of the clearing was charged with tension. Alcadizzar stiffened, surprised by the vehemence in Neferata’s voice, but Naaima’s expression was implacable.

“There is news from Rasetra,” she said, glaring an accusation at Neferata. “The old king, Aten-heru, is dead. He has gone into the realms of the dead, never having seen the face of his eldest son.”

Alcadizzar said nothing. A frown creased his brow, as though the young man was uncertain what he should feel. After a moment, he sighed. “Who will rule in Aten-heru’s place?” he asked.

“Your younger brother, Asar,” Naaima told him. “He sends you his greetings and his love, and begs you to quit Lahmia and come home for your father’s interment.”

The prince’s frown deepened into a scowl. “Home?” he said. “No. I cannot. I am pledged to the temple—”

“Cannot?” Naaima said. “You are to be the king of Khemri! There is nothing you cannot do! Leave this place, Alcadizzar. Now. Before it’s too late—”

“Silence!” Neferata snarled, and this time Naaima flinched at the power in her voice. Eyes glittering like a serpent’s, Neferata turned to Alcadizzar. “Leave us,” she said curtly. “Return to the inner sanctum and offer up prayers to the goddess for your father’s safe passage into the underworld. It is the proper thing for a son to do.”

Alcadizzar hesitated for a moment, his gaze shifting from Neferata to Naaima as he tried to read the invisible currents of anger between them. When no further explanation was forthcoming he gave a reluctant nod. “Yes, holy one,” he said at last.

The prince withdrew quietly from the clearing, casting long glances over his shoulder at the rigid, angry figures of the two women.

Silence descended on the clearing. Neferata said nothing for a long while, until Alcadizzar’s stealthy footfalls had faded from the garden entirely. Naaima waited for what was to come, her expression calm but her dark eyes glinting defiantly.

“I’m trying to recall the last time I saw you,” Neferata said at last. “How long has it been? Forty-five years? Fifty? You’ve avoided me for half a century, and now here you are.” She began walking slowly towards Naaima, as if the former courtesan were a wild animal that was easily spooked. “After everything I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me?”

“Yes,” Naaima shot back. “How else? Long ago, you saved my life. Can’t you see that I’m trying to do the same?”

“You know how important he is!” Neferata snarled. “Alcadizzar represents the future! Together we’ll lead Nehekhara into a golden age—an eternal age of peace and prosperity!”

“No. You won’t.” Naaima shook her head sadly. “Alcadizzar will never be your consort, Neferata, no matter what you think. Once he realises what you truly are, he will become your sworn enemy.” Tears glimmered at the corners of her eyes. “He will have no choice. Can’t you see that? All he knows is duty and sacrifice. That’s the way you made him.” Naaima wiped at her cheeks. “Then you will have to kill Alcadizzar, or let him go. Either way, Lahmia will burn.”

Neferata reached up and tore off her golden mask. Her fangs glinted coldly in the moonlight. “What do you know of Alcadizzar, you Eastern slut?” she said. “It was my blood that saved him as a babe, when his own mother could not, and it’s my blood that courses through his body even now! His first duty is to me, and no other!”

More tears stained the former courtesan’s face. This time she did not bother to wipe them away. “I’m sorry,” Naaima said. “I know it must be hard for you, after everything you’ve lost. But Alcadizzar will not make you a queen again. He cannot. Nor will he ever love you.”

“Get out of my sight,” Neferata said. Her voice had grown as hard and cold as stone. “Now. Or so help me, I’ll rip out your traitorous little heart.”

Naaima closed her eyes in resignation. “As you wish,” she said, with as much dignity as she could muster. She withdrew slowly, stepping back into the all-concealing shadows. Her voice rose like a ghost from the darkness.

“Always, I have loved you,” she said. “And I will do so until the end. Remember that, when all the others have betrayed you.”

“I said go!” Neferata cried. She rushed forwards, claws raised. Night birds leapt from the branches of the trees, their forlorn cries echoing from the distant garden walls.