I MUTE A CRY AS DJEDEF LETS OUT AN AGONISED GROAN.The glistening tip of the obsidian sword juts from his chest. Caeror has one hand on his shoulder and the other firmly on the blade’s hilt, holding him in place from behind. “Say nothing except to answer my questions. Tell me what happened when you died. Be truthful. Leave nothing out that I would want to know,” he says in thick Vetusian.
I clench my fists. Shock, and the desire to do something, warring with Caeror’s warning. Djedef is evidently in pain and yet he doesn’t fall, doesn’t try to get away. If any blood seeps from his new wound, I cannot see it.
“I was … a few hours out of Duat. Heading east. Told … there would be someone out there … who might help.” He gasps the words but speaks slowly enough that I can follow without great difficulty. “One of those …things… came from nowhere. Didn’t … see it until it had seen me.”
“You were told someone would be in the desert?” Caeror’s interest is sharp.
“In … a message.” Djedef stumbles a little, but Caeror’s grip on him never wavers, not allowing him to move away. “Someone called Netiqret. He … supplied mykhepri. Got me out. We never … met.”
Caeror breathes out, clearly dissatisfied. “And when the Gleaner killed you, it questioned you?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell it?”
“What I … told you.”
“That wouldn’t be enough.” Caeror is frowning now. “What did you say to make it leave you so urgently?”
“I don’t know.”
The response changes something in Caeror. There’s a slight slumping of the shoulders. The barest tensing of muscle, though not so much that Djedef would notice.
“What time of day was it when you died, Djedef?”
“Morning. Not long before noon.”
Caeror nods, unseen by the man. Almost ready to relax again, but then hecocks his head to the side. “How many days have passed since the last restday in Duat?”
Djedef is suddenly moving. Jerking forward, physically hauling himself off the obsidian through his chest. Caeror yells for him to stop, tackles him to the ground, barely keeping the weapon embedded. Djedef writhes, tries to use the sand against his face to strip off his blindfold.
“Be still!” Caeror shouts it; as soon as the words are out of his mouth, Djedef goes limp. “Do not move. Do not speak.” He’s on his knees, one hand still on the blade’s hilt.
He steels himself. Lets go.
“We were in a—”
Djedef’s rapid words are cut off as Caeror grasps either side of his head, and twists. There’s a sharp snap. Djedef lies still.
Caeror watches him and then exhales, movements heavy. “A broken neck is almost always too much for Will to compensate for.” He extracts the obsidian sliver from Djedef’s chest and then rolls him over.
Positions the blade beneath his throat and then quickly, regretfully, slides it into his skull.
I take a shuddering step back as Caeror pulls the weapon out again and gets to his feet. He turns to me and holds out a hand in what he evidently means as a reassuring gesture.
“Why?” I whisper it.
“The Instruction Blades were originally Ka’s; using one on a mind he’s infected creates a kind of connection back to him. Using them for this isn’t ideal, but it’s still better than having Djedef wake up one night and try to murder us all.” He crouches, stabs the blade in the sand to clean it. “Ka can make iunctii forget things, but he can’t give them false memories. Which means that everything Djedef just said was the truth, but they must have caught him a day or two ago. Brought him back to Duat, then commanded him to reenact his death when they thought we were watching. They haven’t tried that for a few years.” Pulls the blade out again. Inspects it. “At least Ka will know he has no utility now. It should reduce the resources he’s willing to waste in finding him. Means they’ll give up sooner. Now help me cover him.”
I numbly do as he asks. We start kicking sand and piling stones over Djedef’s corpse. “But if he’s of no use—”
“The Gleaners will have already started a sweep when the body went missing,and now Ka has a direction. They’ll know we’re outside and can’t be more than a few hours away on foot. It’s not a big area for them to cover.” He talks quickly and urgently, all seriousness now. “Our tracks won’t be easy to spot, and the wind will help—but if they find the body in the next half hour, it could still be enough of a starting point for them to follow us.”
The last grains of sand conceal the remnants of Djedef’s face. Caeror steps back to give the nondescript mound a critical examination, then glances up at the sky. “Let’s move. Slow and steady. Erase our tracks like last time.”
He sets off, and I follow.
The sun is almost touching the horizon as we trudge up the shadows of dunes and then down through its deep orange light, Caeror’s intent visage leaving me in no doubt as to the danger. We’re only ten minutes in—surely not far from the cave entrance, though I have no easy point of reference—when he slows to a dismayed halt. Points to the sky in the west. “There.”
