Behkai sniffed her and gave her face a slow, laborious lick, as if trying to comfort her even though he was the one who was hurt.
She watched the dog’s eyes—one black, one white—shift from her face to the corpse behind her. His nose quivered. Then, with effort, Behkai rose to his feet, and made his way over to his master. From the corner of her vision, she saw the dog settle on his haunches near Karim’s body, until he finally laid his great head on one booted foot and was still.
Sita didn’t want to look. She didn’t think she could bear to see him up close.
It’s like Maet all over again, she thought.But worse. So much worse.
Sunlight spilled over the valley, illuminating every rock, every leaf, every thread of the blanket under which she’d been curled. Soon, there was no darkness left to hide what had happened there.
Sita squeezed her eyes shut.
I’ll go mad.I can’t do it. I can’t. I can’t!
But she did.
She looked.
Karim lay on his back, his arms splayed out on either side. His stubbled, blood-spattered face was tilted to the sky, his lips slightly parted, his eyes open and sightless.
Hours ago, that same face had been lit by firelight and so alive.
“You can sleep now,” he’d told her. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep watch through the night.”
Her gaze drifted down. His robe and tunic had been ripped away, exposing his naked chest beneath.
Her stomach twisted and she put her hands on her knees to keep from falling.
She gagged and raised a hand to her mouth to stifle the scream.
There was so much blood.
It covered Karim’s entire torso, spilling in dark rivulets downhis belly and the curves of his hips. It flowed down his collarbones, pooling in the hollow of his throat. And within that wet burrow, beyond jagged, broken ribs and shredded pink flesh, there was—a void.
That monster, that man… had plucked out Karim’s heart and discarded his body like a hollow shell.
Suddenly, Sita remembered the text she’d translated from Karim’s stolen map.
Here lies Setnakht, his spirit indestructible, as powerful as a god.
He shall not travel West, for his work is unfinished.
Sita paled as she recalled the final line. “‘Flesh of an acolyte,’” she murmured, “Or maybe, ‘heart?’”
Her eyes followed Setnakht’s footsteps in the sand, leading off into the desert. If the ancient, fearsome king had gotten what he wanted, if he was truly alive once more, what would he do next?
Sita thought of what Karim had told her about the Oracle of the Lamb, and its grim portents of ruin, betrayal, and war. Of a river turned to blood. Looking back on her final days at the palace, leading to the events of that very night, she sensed that grisly river had already begun to flow.
It was so cruel. She’d finally confided in someone, and he’d confided in her. And even after she refused to help him with his quest, he’d still been kind.
I hope your story gets a happy ending.
Sita approached him on bare feet. Overwhelmed with griefand shame and despair, she fell to her knees beside Karim’s ruined body and began to cry.
She tore at her hair—her beauty, her pride, but what did it matter now? The pain was good. She needed her body to suffer with her spirit. She rocked back and forth, the rhythm counting the seconds, the minutes, the eternity of her mourning. Not only for Karim, but for all who had been lost.
As she rocked, her two amulets swung in time with her movement, reminding her of Nebet’s prayer.
The blood of Isis.
