Commission: Sands of Destiny 2

The exterior of the temple complex sprawled over the hills which stood to the east of Irem, the Sleeper city which the temple protected, snug in the bend of the great river. Hori observed the motion of the distant sleepers through their clean streets, from the laborers in the fields, and the little fisher boats, to the priests of the lower temples carrying out the administration of the city under the vigilant gaze of the stone temple guardians which kept order among those unawakened.

He turned his gaze to the single point of connection between the House of All Secrets and the city below, the shining pale blue painted stairway carved into the side of the great helps meandering up its steep slope. He remembered his first time, observing Sleepers climbing the nine hundred steps, or rather, the six hundred a sleeper could perceive on their own. It was a grueling challenge of perception and wit, navigation of the soul maze which the stairs truly wound through, using only mortal senses and the clues and riddles left by the priests.

Young boys and girls, eyes shining with determination and intelligence, even as their parched lips bled and their exhausted limbs trembled. It was ever an inspiring site, a reminder to the blood of Dihauti that the cradle city Irem was an endless fount of new wisdom to add to the Mind of God.

Perhaps he should volunteer to be a proctor in a few years. Perhaps if he had taken on more communal duties, he would not have been chosen for this task.

He felt her approach out here on the temple veranda, it came with the crying of the desert wind, the rippling heat haze of the dunes beyond, where the godpath wound through out of synch with the material world, stretching off to the more southerly temples in the network. It was a presence that stalked and loomed, a lion in the high grasses.

He refused to give her the satisfaction of reacting to her progression, remaining in his polite stance here at the temple gates, beneath the colorfully painted pillars cut with warding glyphs and temple history. His porter dreg stood hunched behind him, the stone chest containing his tools and effects strapped across its back. Its crimson eyes were dull, flicking around the courtyard like an animal, panted in the desert heat, pointed tongue hanging from its muzzle.

Other scholars and their own porters went too and fro past him some returning, others going. More congregated, speaking in low voices amongst the columns as they made the final checks before beginning their journeys.

The wind kicked up, sand spun, a whirling vortice out along the Godpath, and she stepped through.

The children of Sahkmis were imposing, even among the blood of the goods. Towering nearly a full meter taller than him, muscle rippled under skin like burnished bronze, lit from within by the molten heat of the noonday sun, shining through the lines of muscle tone. Her hair was like a lion’s mane, ruddy and red, worn barbarically loose around her shoulders.

Now he turned to face her, and clapped his fists together before his chest, lowering his head. “Dendera XIV Malikhet, be welcome in the House of All Secrets. The blood of Dihauti greets the blood of his niece Sahkmis, and welcomes her upon his threshold.”

“Cold of you Hori,” She rumbled, coming to stand before him, looming, her crossed arms bulged with muscle, as thick as his thighs. He caught a flash of her teeth, sharp and predatory. “Not even a handclasp?”

“Please, at least perform the proper rite before starting this,” Hori said tiredly.

She huffed, and her hand cut through the air in a martial salute. “The blood of Sakhmis greets the Far Seeing one, her Uncle, Dihauti of the Silver Eye. I accept your welcome upon the threshold, brief as it may be.”

“Good enough, Hori?”

He let his hands fall, struggling not to roll his eyes. “Good enough Dendera.”

He looked up at her with pursed lips. “How much do you know of our task?”

“I am to be as the guardian, the fierce storm scouring away those children of night, as you and the other we meet do your work. We go to the Old City, to mournful Faiyun, to see that the fires burn and the obelisks stand.”

He nodded tersely. “Good enough. Yes, we go west as the river bends first, to Tephren, to meet with a scion of Startamer, Mistress of All Spells, the Goddess Aset, who will open the way to the Throne of the Dead King, where the Lady’s late husband sleeps.”

For once her cocky slightly mocking expression shifted, showing a hint of worry in pursed lips and a raised eyebrow. “So deep? I imagined we might simply be scouring the dunes and replacing the warding obelisks.”

“We learn more with the scion of Aset. I was only informed that the Lord of the Black Earth stirs in death,” Hori said.

It was much easier to put aside his reticence for this, now that he knew the task was so serious.

“Hah, well perhaps this will be interesting after all,” Dendera rumbled, glancing out west, beyond the course of the river. “Ready to get walking then, Hori?”

“I am,” he said, snapping his fingers to call his porter to attention. The dreg lunged to its feet, bounding up to stand behind him, wobbling only slightly from the weight of the stone cabinet on its back.

***

The Godpaths were a fascinating subject in their own right, the roads paved in the realm of souls by Pteru’s wanderings during the age of the First Sun, when the world was yet in flux after the sundering of the primordial sea and the formation of the lands as they knew them today. He had put in requests to be included in the reclaiming expeditions, to restore those which had broken and expand those which had been worn down, but he was yet too junior to be considered. If he…

“Eye’s ahead Hori. The Paths are not kind to those with wind blowing between their ears.”

He glanced at Dendera irritably. “One can ponder more than one thought at a time, or at least I may,” he replied.

The bruise colored sky over their heads, staining the sandstone path which wound through the glittering emptiness dark red, was an ill omen itself. He would not be surprised if far more things were on the move than their little maintenance expedition.

The dark green ankh’s which burned along the sides of the Path, warding it from the unformed soul space around burned brightly, but every so often he caught a flicker in one. He was counting and compiling his observations on the pattern and frequency of the flickers in a third thought thread.

“Ah, yes of course, foolish I, who does not divide their thoughts until they are all roaming about like a hoard of bored temple cats,” Dendera drawled. 

“There is nothing to say, we both know our duties,” Hori grumbled.

“It is so,” Dendera shrugged, making a show of shading her eyes despite the sourceless nature of light in the Paths as she peered ahead. “No regrets?”

“Do you have any?” Hori shot back. He did not need to spend his days with someone who fundamentally disrespected his work and interests.

“None,” she replied tersely. “I spoke only true words.”

“Then why bring it up?” Hori replied. He peered ahead himself. There was the outline of Tephren in this realm. Or rather, the vast white pyramid of gleaming seven colored force, inscribed with a million warding spells, each potent enough to unmake even lesser gods.

The Citadel of the Queen Mother, Goddess Aset, Master of All Names.

And there ahead of them on the road was a figure waiting for them.

They were slender for godkin, dark eyes lined with kohl, and lips painted white, their hair arranged in the black and dark blue braids in imitation of the God’s own visage, they wore a gown of white and gold, inscribed with glyphs and the names of spirits bound to their will. Most prominently, from their shoulders sprouted wings of scintillating colored feathers, folded before them in patient waiting, a sign of the Queen-Mother’s favor.

“Welcome, the Citadel of Aset thanks the Houses of Dihauti and Sahkmis for their prompt attention,” their voice was  a whispering, breathy thing, that nonetheless echoed clearly in the still air.

“The wrathful wind rises always at the word of the avenger of the First Sun,” Dendera rumbled.

“And the Far Seeing knows the Mistress of Magics does not call without need,” Hori said, clasping his own fists. “Though this scholar is curious, should this matter not rise to the Pharaoh’s house?”

It did, after all, involve the stirring of his father’s grave.

“This cannot involve the Third Sun. The Blood of Horakhty cannot enter the realms of the dead. This is forbidden, by pact and price paid by the Goddess. I cannot speak more of this,” They said calmly. “Will that suffice for your curiosity, secret seeker?”

“It will, and my apologies,” Hori said, lowering his head.

“You’ll get that poking nose cut off one day, Hori,” Dendera said. “Who do we speak to?”

“This messenger bears the title Lapis.”

Their name was still held in Aset’s vaults then. That temple's practices were more restrictive. 

“Fine. Where do we go now, Lapis?”

“Now, I show thee to the gates, and you will prepare to face the Dead King’s troubled dreams.”