The Dark Lord

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The Desert Beyond Lake Mareotis, Lower Egypt

"There!" Nicholas pointed, eyes shaded against the blazing white sky by his burnoose. "A worked edge."

Sandals crunching in loose pea sand, Thyatis climbed a low dune to stand beside the Latin. Pillars and knobs of crumbling russet-colored stone rose from the desolation, stretching to the horizon in either direction. Beneath the eroded towers, dark red sand moved slowly south, driven by a constant gusty wind. The Roman woman had never seen a more inhospitable place. All signs of life were absent-no short grass, no lichen, no birds-nothing but keening wind and the rattling sound of sand blowing against rock.

Ahead, beyond Nicholas' pointing finger, she saw a larger pinnacle jutting from the wayward dunes, burnished sandstone striated with dark streaks. The lowering sun threw a long shadow to the east, but her eyes found a dissonant angle on the face of the worn, curved rock.

"Not a door," she said, voice muffled by the heavy linen covering her mouth and nose. "But something made by man."

Nicholas nodded and they advanced cautiously. Thyatis drifted to the left and the Latin to the right. A hundred yards behind, the camels and workers waited patiently in the lee of another knob of fluted stone. Thyatis kept a sharp eye on the avenues of sand and barren rock between the pillars, watching for any movement. Disquiet had plagued her since they'd entered the wasteland-she was sure someone was watching them as they picked their way across the broken, rough ground. Nicholas darted ahead, reaching the side of the pinnacle. His hands searched over grainy, pebbled stone. Up close, the sharp edge that had seemed so clear from a distance vanished, lost in wind-carved surfaces.

Thyatis continued to watch their backs, crouching against the base of the rock, letting her tan-and-brown silhouette merge with the land. The sense of unease grew and her fingers tightened on the hilt of her sword. "Anything?"

"No." Nicholas stepped back, looking up. "But I'm sure…"

Thyatis froze, feeling a strange trembling against her breastbone. Without looking down, she slid one hand into her tunic, groping for the prince's amulet. The copper disk, warm from the heat of her body, was vibrating. Gritting her teeth, she clamped down-though the device made no audible noise-and felt the metal humming.

Curse this Roman and his mysterious friends! Thyatis felt a brief spike of fury, then quashed the emotion. She twitched her shoulders, trying to keep from tensing up. Curse the Persians too for inspiring a lax, slovenly Cypriot to find something valuable in the morass of that library for once in his wretched, short life! She looked sideways at Nicholas, who was crouching on the sand, looking up at the stone face from an odd angle.

"See anything?" Thyatis startled herself with a wry laugh. Upside down, he looked like a monkey.

"Maybe…" Nicholas began digging in the sand blown against the base of the pinnacle.

Thyatis watched him, weighing her options. If the prince's talisman told true, there was a telecast nearby. She couldn't let it be found, either by Nicholas or anyone else. Should I kill him now? she wondered, glancing back to the rest of the caravan. Mithridates and Betia were watching her, while the others kept an eye on the camels or the wasteland. The pinnacles and spires broke up the horizon, making everything a jumble. It would be easy for someone to approach, hiding among the broken rock. Murder Vladimir and the workers… tell the Emperor the Persians ambushed us…

The thought made her feel ill and cold. She didn't know how she felt about Nicholas, but Vladimir was a gregarious, outgoing fellow and this mess was none of his making. What is so important about these cursed devices anyway? The Duchess' fears seemed remote and insubstantial under the desert sun, with a hot wind tugging at her robe. Thyatis felt irritated too. She had never been troubled by the thought of striking down an enemy of the state before-but was Nicholas an enemy? Cursing under her breath, she kicked sand away. My dear mother has to make everything so complicated…

"Here!" Nicholas turned, grinning. His hole in the sand had gone down a foot or more and the worn, smoothed stones had changed, revealing a sharper, clearly man-made cut in the rock face. "Hallo!" He sprang up, waving at the others. "There is something here!"

Thyatis whistled softly, a warbling trill, and Betia-standing watch over the camels fifty feet away-turned to face her. The little Gaul was wrapped from head to toe in desert robes, a mottled brown and tan and white, only pale blue eyes peering from a thin slit in the cloth. Thyatis had been circling the pinnacle, watching for anyone or anything, and now stood out of sight of the excavation busily underway at the base of the rock face.

The fellaheen had been digging industriously for over an hour, their mattocks and spades burrowing into the firmly packed sand. Nicholas' discovery had proved to be the side of a frieze. Only the legs and feet of three figures remained, protected by the packed sand. Everything exposed above the ground level had been obliterated by seven hundred years of ceaseless, gnawing wind. Thyatis felt a steadily rising tension in her gut, mirroring the slow appearance of a stone door covered with hieroglyphs and animal figures. Nicholas squatted at the top of the pit, watching with excited interest.

Ignoring Betia for the moment, Thyatis let her eyes unfocus, turning slightly and surveying the surrounding landscape. There was no movement, nothing out of the ordinary, no suddenly familiar silhouette against the organic shapes of rock and sky. Vladimir and Mithridates-muscles gleaming with sweat-were hauling bags of sand out of the pit, daring each other to carry heavier and heavier weights.

Circle, Thyatis signed at Betia, when she was sure no one was watching. Look for tracks or signs. Stay out of sight.

The little blonde nodded, then her hands moved sharply. Archers?

Thyatis signed I hope so, then resumed her drifting movement between the pinnacles and jagged stones. She hoped the Daughters were somewhere nearby. Any hope of them having come and gone remained faint-the amulet around her neck continued to shiver, the hum vibrating through her breastbone.

Torches guttered, whipped by the dying sundown wind. Thyatis stood at the top of the pit, now grown to a dozen paces wide and twice as long. The excavation revealed a pair of fluted, acanthus-topped pillars and a step buried long ago by the sand. Nervous, she bit her lower lip, watching men strain against stone. A massive granite slab closed the entrance to the tomb, but Mithridates and Vladimir leaned on a pair of iron pry bars, gleaming muscles tense with effort. The fellaheen made a crowd on the ramp, watching with trepidation. At least one was chanting nervously, making signs against ill fortune. Nicholas seemed terribly pleased with himself, caught in the excitement of opening something hidden for hundreds of years.

Mithridates grunted, a deep basso noise, and the bar in his hands began to bend, torqued beyond the ability of the iron to withstand. Vladimir braced his feet again and shoved, flat muscles rippling under a thick pelt of fur covering his back and upper arms. His effort was rewarded with a grating sound, then dust puffed from the edges of the stone door. Thyatis held her breath, fingers white on the hilt of her sword.

The slab groaned again, scraping, and then an opening appeared-dark and fathomless in the wavering light of the torches-on one side of the slab.

"That's it!" Nicholas shouted, scrambling down into the pit. He snatched up another pry bar and squeezed in, thrusting the iron into the crevice. Several of the fellaheen-seeing none of the Romans had perished so far-crept up and lent their own wiry muscle to widening the opening. After a long moment of grunting and sweat streaming from matted hair, the door rumbled to one side. All five men stepped back, grimacing. The tomb exhaled a draft of dull, dead air. Nicholas thrust a torch into the doorway.

Broad, crisply cut steps led down into darkness. Ruddy orange light revealed wall paintings in brilliant azure, umber, crimson and white-cranes and kings and delta fields thick with game birds and peasants working pumps, scythes, bellows. Nicholas stepped into the passage, reaching out with a tentative hand. His touch barely brushed the painted colors and they crumbled away to rose-colored dust, leaving only a faint memory on the smooth stone.

"Come," the Latin barked, gesturing for the fellaheen. "Bring the torches and the sled."

Mithridates and Vladimir climbed out of the pit. Thyatis caught the African's eye as he bent to lift the wooden platform with its greased rails.

"Betia?" he whispered, casting about for the little Gaul. Thyatis flashed him a quick smile, indicating the encompassing darkness with a momentary tilt of her head.

"I'll follow," Thyatis called down to Nicholas, "and watch our backs."

"Good." The Latin singled out two the fellaheen. "You and you, guard the camels."

Grinning in relief, teeth white against sun-darkened faces, the two Egyptians scrambled out of the excavation. Thyatis followed Vladimir and Mithridates down into the pit, blade now bare in her hand. The tunnel was already filled with flickering light as Nicholas and a crowd of fellaheen descended, torches and lanterns held high. She turned in the doorway, casting a wary eye at the desert, but could see nothing-not even the stars, or the late moon-beyond the torches thrust into the sandy ground. Some distance away, the camels honked and grumbled at the approach of the two men.

Frowning, the Roman woman turned and stepped lightly down into the tomb. Her neck was prickling again. There is someone out there… She hoped Betia would be careful.

Quiet and patient, Patik stood in the shadow of a nearby crag. A dozen yards away, torches guttered in the wind, illuminating the pit. The Persian watched with interest, a faint gleam of light sparkling in his eyes. He never failed to be intrigued by the ability of men-even experienced soldiers-to be blinded by the simple division of light and darkness. The torches were visible for miles across the desert plain, winking between the standing stones. He and his men had approached cautiously, but even the Roman watchers had remained within the circle of light, blinding themselves. Patik had no cause for complaint.

Two of the Egyptian workers approached the camels and gear piled in the lee of one of the stone pinnacles. Both of the animals were nervous, but the men-tired from a long afternoon and evening's labor-ignored their warning grunts. Amur, his armor and face blackened with soot, rose quietly from the ground as the two fellaheen passed and his scarred hand was over one mouth, his knife sawing in one neck before anyone could do anything. The other Egyptian walked two paces, then turned, curious, missing the sound of his friend's footsteps. The Persian thrust hard, driving his dagger into the man's throat. A choking, gargled cry was drowned by blood flooding from the wound and Mihr caught the body before it could fall to the ground.

"Move," Patik hissed, padding forward silently across the loose sand. Despite his size and bulk, he showed a feral gracefulness in motion. The big Persian paused at the top of the excavation. No one was in sight, not even in the tunnel mouth. Tishtrya and Asha slid down the slope at the Persian's signal, then crept into the tunnel.

"Are you ready?" Patik kept his voice low, even doubting there were any Romans within earshot. Artabanus nodded, looking a little sickly in the poor, wavering light. Patik doubted the mage had ever seen a man killed before, at least not at such close range.

"Good." The big Persian descended into the pit, finally drawing his own sword. Asha was visible, ahead, crouched in the tunnel at some kind of turning.

Allowing herself a breath of relief, Shirin raised her head from the sand. The edge of the pit was only two strides away. Echoing, the soft voices of the Persians receded into the earth. As she watched, two more Persians slipped out of the darkness, one man wiping blood from a knife on his tunic and disappeared into the excavation.

"Lovely," the Khazar woman breathed out slowly, then carefully backed away into the darkness. Beyond the circle of light thrown by the torches, only starlight picked out the tumbled stones and massive pinnacles. But this was enough for a daughter of the house of Asena. Padding softly on bare feet, Shirin circled away from the lights and the buried door. She had hoped to follow Thyatis into the tomb, but had waited-unaccountably nervous-and the sudden appearance of the Persians had almost stopped her heart with surprise.

Who else is creeping around in the darkness? she wondered, drifting behind another towering column of sandstone. Disturbed by the thought, Shirin looked to the east, hoping for the moon to rise, but Orion was still low on the horizon and when Luna did rise, she would be thin and pale. The land among the pillars was very dark and the intermittent, wayward wind obscured as many sounds as it carried. I have to do something, she decided, turning back towards the tomb. I should warn Thyatis.

A faint sparkle caught her eye as she moved back around the wall of stone. Off to her right, starlight shifted on disturbed sand. Shirin paused, looking towards the circle of torches, then back to the pale, gleaming avenue between the stones. Gritting her teeth, she darted forward, iron knife bare in her hand. Stooping over the sand, she saw the faint outline of footprints arcing away from the Roman camp. The unsettled feeling in her stomach worsened. There is someone else out here.

Head raised, eyes straining to pierce the night, Shirin followed the tracks in a half-crouch, one hand drifting over the sand, finding the shallow wells of someone moving lightly on the earth. After a few moments she reached another towering sandstone pinnacle. Gingerly, she picked her way around the scalloped, eroded wall. The breeze fluttered, disturbing her hair, then died.

She froze. A tremendous silence filled the night, without even the whisper of the night wind to disturb the sand. Counting thudding, enormously loud heartbeats, Shirin waited. Nothing moved in the darkness. Cautiously, she resumed creeping along the stone face. Twenty steps later, she froze again. A breath of air brushed her cheek, ruffling a wayward curl.

Anticipation mounting, Shirin's fingers explored the rock, finding a narrow vertical crack. Air hissed softly from the opening. A cave, she realized, remembering her uncles' tales around a winter fire, very long ago. A big one. She pressed against the rock, fingers pressing and poking in the hollowed stone. A sharp-edged groove revealed itself to her searching fingers, then another. Frowning in the darkness, Shirin traced a half-familiar pattern. A bow? Newly scratched in the stone?

Without thinking, she traced the sign of the Archer in the air, nodding to herself. The Daughters must have been here recently. Putting her shoulder against the rock, the Khazar pushed, feet slipping on the sand. There was a scraping sound, then the stone face slid away and she fell, startled, into the greater darkness beyond. A rumbling creak followed as she scrambled up from a smooth floor and the counterweighted block rotated back into place, cutting off even the faint ghost-light of the stars.

Time passed, the eroded face of the pinnacle remaining stolid and unmoving despite the faint sound of metal banging on stone. Eventually the faint noise stopped and silence settled on the sand and rock.

Some time later, the curved arm of the moon lifted above the eastern horizon, casting a pale, silvery light over the wasteland and the rocky knobs. The shadows grew deeper, though the sand glittered faintly. A figure, hunched and bent over the rippled sand, appeared in the dim radiance, creeping along Shirin's trail. After casting back and forth across the marks of her sandals, it reached the rocky face. Thick fingers, clad in burnished dark mail, examined the worn surface, poking and prodding.

A hiss of anger broke the silence. The figure drew away from the hidden door and moved back along the footsteps in the hard sand. Another shape, also cowled and shrouded, met the searcher and together they loped off towards the Roman excavation. The torches had burned down to glowing ash, which did nothing to prevent the entrance of the two wights into the tomb.

"Another dead end!" Nicholas cursed, backing up. Behind him, two of the fellaheen scrambled backwards up a sloping ramp. Their torches flared along the low ceiling, leaving washes of soot on the bare stone. Nicholas glowered at the rough-hewn stone wall closing off the end of the passage.

"Let's try the other way," Thyatis said. She was trying to hide a smile. Nicholas was covered with dust and grime from head to toe. Squinting with his bad eye, he crawled out of the square-cut opening into the larger tunnel. "There are plenty of passages to search."

"Funny," he growled. The entrance ramp had led down into a high-ceilinged gallery lined with plastered columns. Despite the excited shouts of the fellaheen, they had found nothing in the entryway but broken pottery and desiccated bits of bone and skin. Thyatis didn't think the remains were human, but she'd steered clear of the detritus anyway. "Does anyone see anything?"

The workers, squatting on the floor of the passage, shook their heads. Most of the men had lost their initial fear-no vengeful spirits had emerged from the painted walls to threaten them and the tomb was proving a dull succession of debris-filled rooms, rubble-strewn corridors and dead-end passages like this one. Thyatis did not respond. As before, she remained at the rear of the group, watching the passage behind them, squinting into the darkness beyond the light of their torches and listening. Sound echoed strangely in the contorted tunnels. A little while ago, there had been a clattering sound-like metal falling on stone-behind them.

"Vlad? Do you hear, see, smell anything?" Nicholas sounded worried and impatient.

The Walach looked up, eyes glittering in the torchlight. His beard and long hair were streaked with white dust and he looked miserable. "I smell you," he growled, "and these pitch torches. Not much else."

"All right," Nicholas sighed. "Let go back to the last junction. Vlad, you lead."

Thyatis waited, pressed against the corridor wall, while everyone reversed direction and crowded past. Mithridates brought up the rear, dragging the sled easily behind him. As he passed, Thyatis grinned at the Numidian. The wide-shouldered African smiled back, though he had to crouch to keep from striking his head on the ceiling.

Clanking and rustling, the group trooped back down the tunnel and into a junction of sloping, ramped corridors. One led up, back to the first gallery, the others went off in every direction. Over the heads of her companions, Thyatis could see Vladimir crouched in the octagonal room, casting about, nostrils flared. Nicholas, his long blade bare in his hand, was watching from the tunnel mouth. After canvassing the chamber, Vladimir paused at the bottom of a ramp trending upward.

"Someone's been this way," the Walach called, his voice echoing in the domed ceiling. "I can smell garlic, maybe, and some kind of metallic-tasting oil." Turning, he tasted the air in the other openings. "Someone passed this way too with incense, myrrh, beeswax, coriander…" He squinted down the passage. "A lamp with scented oil. Sweet."

Just in front of Thyatis, Mithridates turned, looking over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised skeptically. The Roman woman shrugged, stepping up beside the African.

"We're the first people in this tomb in hundreds of years," she whispered. "All those smells are just sitting here, undisturbed." At the same time, she felt a cold prickling, wondering just how good the Walach's eyesight was, if his sense of smell was so sharp. Sparring to pass the time on the Paris had already proven the barbarian was fantastically quick and strong. He didn't have the hard-won skill owned by Nicholas or Thyatis, but he could wield his long-bladed axe tirelessly.

"Are there any tracks?" Nicholas thrust his torch into the doorway of the downward ramp.

"No," Vladimir said, padding down the tunnel in a half-crouch. "The smell is getting stronger."

"Right." Nicholas followed, beckoning for the others. Most of the fellaheen followed, though two of them were peering up the other passage. Thyatis, following at the back of the group, scowled at them as she crossed the octagonal room.

"You two," she hissed, "this way!"

At the same moment, one of the Egyptians-head wrapped in an elaborate turban-pointed, whistling in surprise. "Look, my lady, something's there!"

Thyatis was at his side in an instant. The ramp sloped up and turned onto a platform. At the bend, there was some kind of debris glittering bright and golden in the torchlight. In the poor light, it was impossible to tell what it was.

"Leave it," she growled, feeling her hackles rise. There were white shapes in the rubble too, like bones. "We can check it later."

The other fellaheen, making a hasty sign against spirits, hastened to catch up with the others. Thyatis followed, smirking. Someone has an atom of good sense, she thought. Then she stopped, frowning. Where was the first man… Thyatis spun, leaping back towards the ramp. She caught sight of a pair of sandals disappearing up the tunnel and skidded to a halt.

The Egyptian snatched up the shining object-a funerary vase, fluted and golden, footed with lions' paws-and turned it over in his hand. The debris, disturbed, rattled and bits and pieces of wood bounced down the ramp.

"Get down here!" Thyatis kicked a small wooden jackal head away with her sandal.

Her head snapped up-the rattling sound becoming a shockingly loud rumbling-and in the flaring light of a falling torch, she saw the Egyptian turn towards her, then the tomb wall at the top of the ramp came loose. Thyatis leapt back, startled. A rectangular plug of stone rotated down with an enormous dull boom. The Egyptian's scream was cut short as the entire structure slid greasily to a halt. A massive thud punched the air as the stone plug rammed into the lintel of the doorway. Dust cascaded from the ceiling, making Thyatis sneeze. Stunned, she scuttled backwards.

The block shuddered for a moment, then became still. The Roman woman sneezed again, wiping a thick patina of white dust from her face. There was no sign of the man or his golden prize. The newly exposed slab filling the doorway was carved with a relief showing kilted men bowing before the Judges of the Underworld.

"That's very nice," Thyatis muttered to herself. Nicholas and Mithridates appeared at her side, staring in surprise into the dust-filled chamber.

"What happened?" Nicholas' voice was very tense and sharp. Mithridates had a spear-like pry bar in his hands. "Where's Fenuku?"

"Under there." Thyatis turned away, digging grit out of her eye with a thumb. "Let's go."

Vladimir's trail of incense led down into another pillared hall, this one crowded with crumbling wooden crates and wicker hampers filled with rotting, desiccated goods. On edge, the fellaheen and the Romans picked their way through the chamber to an entrance sealed with a heavy slab of raw, unworked stone. The Walach pressed himself against the barrier, snuffling along the join between the floor and the door. After a moment, eyes closed, nose twitching, he rose, nodding. "Through here."

"Huh," Nicholas said, glaring at the unremarkable slab. "How did they get it into the doorway?"

A lip of stone ran around the entire opening, hiding the edges of the stone block. There was nowhere to drive a pry bar into a crevice. The Latin knelt, running his fingers along the edges. The fit between the block and the frame was snug and tight. He looked back at Thyatis, grimacing. "Are we going to have to chip our way through? Do we have chisels and hammers?"

"We do. But I don't think we have a week," she replied, looking around the hall. The plastered walls were covered with decaying paintings-most of them cracked and shattered, leaving piles of untidy plaster chips on the floor and gaping holes in the long, panoramic scenes. "They must have sealed the chamber from the other side. Perhaps there is another entrance in some other passage."

Nicholas' face contorted into a scowl and the man turned back to the door, glaring at the mute stone. "Everyone start looking!"

For himself, he bent to examine the door frame again. The fellaheen, huddled together, began poking dubiously at the piles of debris on the floor. Mithridates stood the sled on end and leaned it against one wall. The weight of the wood broke through a thin plaster crust, causing another cloud of dust to rise and images of men and women bowing down before a beardless pharaoh to collapse into dust and paint-tainted chips.

Thyatis remained alert, keeping an eye on the Walach prowling among the scattered junk. Despite her heart's misgivings, she was beginning to think the barbarian would have to be killed first. Thyatis was confident of her ability to overmaster Nicholas in a duel of arms… but the Walach? A moment later, the barbarian paused sharply and reached down into a clutch of spiderwebbed wicker baskets.

"Nicholas! Look at this. There are two of them." Vladimir held a stout cedarpost in his hands, one end recessed, the other carved to make a point. He smelled it carefully. "There was a rope tied around this and the ends were coated with grease." The Walach's forehead crinkled up in thought. "Fat. Pig fat."

Nicholas took the length of lumber and looked from it to the door, and back again. "A post?"

Thinking, he ran a hand over the recessed cavity. Crushed fragments of wood, dark with ancient oil, bent all in one direction. "How did they close the door… men had to enter the tomb, then leave again, sealing it up behind?" Nicholas turned to Thyatis, nodding to himself, imagining the ancient scene. "They tilted a slab up, just inside the door, balanced by these posts. When the last man departed, they jerked the posts away, letting the slab fall into the doorway, perfectly cut and aligned."

"Could be," Thyatis replied. She took the post from him, examining the ancient wood with pursed lips. "The slab had two cone-shaped bumps, to match holes cut in the floor. So the posts were secure while the block was balanced, and now you can't push the slab back, because bump and cavity make a key in the floor. There might even be a brace cut from the floor at the back end of the slab."

"Curse these builders…" Nicholas bit his thumb. "Clever… using a balance like that… we have to make the slab go back as it came down." Certainty filled his face. "Look, they can't have put anything in the path of the block falling, so we can push it back the same way."

"I suppose." Thyatis raised an eyebrow. "How?"

Nicholas stepped to the door frame again. "This," he said, pointing down at the stone lip around the entrance. "This edge gives us a little leverage. We can chisel slots at the base of the slab for the pry bars, then hammer them in, tip up from the bottom and push on the top at the same time."

Begrudgingly, Thyatis nodded in agreement. The fellaheen were already digging mallets and chisels out of their leather carrying bags and Vladimir and Mithridates gathered up their long iron bars, ready to set muscle against stone. Nicholas looked very pleased with himself, but the Roman woman noticed he stood well back from the slab as the Egyptians crouched down to begin chipping away at the sandstone.

Shirin came to a halt at the base of a ramp and hurriedly pinched out her candle stub. Smoke curled towards the triangular apse of the tunnel roof, vanishing into encompassing darkness. A narrow hall opened out before her, filled with double rows of fluted, acanthus-topped pillars. To her right, fire-yellow lights danced among massive stone sarcophagi, to her left was a wall faced with stone steps depicting a procession of gods and demons, carrying gifts and funerary goods. Halfway down the wall, a shadowy recess led into some other, as yet unseen, room.

Muffled whispers ghosted in the air as the Khazar woman stepped into the chamber.

The motion around the coffins ceased, and Shirin felt a prickling sensation. A cluster of figures draped in desert robes turned towards her, swinging round their lanterns. Shirin was suddenly, horribly, aware of her recklessness-these people didn't know her. She didn't know them! They might not even be the Daughters of the Archer she thought to follow through the tunnels and corridors. Covered by her cloak, she grasped the hilt of the long knife in her belt, letting the point slide free of the sheath.

"Who are you?" a sharp, female voice whispered in the gloom. Two of the figures glided towards her, metal glinting in hand, swift-assured violence pregnant in their movements.

"Peace, friends," Shirin said softly, backing up the steps. She made the sign of the Archer with her free hand. The hunt to the swift, she realized. Starvation to the slow! Time for judicious truth. "I've come from the Roman temple, following those tomb robbers."

The lead figure paused, tugging a fold of her burnoose down, revealing a hawk-nosed, pox-scarred visage. Dark eyes blazed in the lantern light. "Show me your face."

Shirin matched the woman's movement, drawing aside her veil. The Egyptian sneered, one thin hand darting out to drag the rest of Shirin's scarf aside. Suppressing a sharp desire to strike the invasive hand away, the Khazar woman remained still, gaze adamant and unflinching.

"You're a pretty spy," the woman said after a moment of scrutiny, her jaw tightening. Shirin thought she saw weighed calculation in the glittering eyes. "You followed us?"

"I saw your tracks in the sand," Shirin responded, shaking her head. "They led me to the hidden door…"

"What is your name, Roman?" the Egyptian woman snapped, a grim light in her eyes. "Was the Hunter's door open? I'll flay someone alive if it was!"

"No," Shirin said, uneasy with the woman's careless threat. "It opened for me. Listen, a party of Romans has entered the tomb. I saw them break through the main door. Can they find these chambers by another path? And there are-"

The Egyptian interrupted with a harsh chuckle. She raised a short-bladed sword, hilt up and grinned at Shirin with a mocking smile. "Your Roman looters won't find this chamber. They might not even live to find the false tomb!"

Irritated by the woman's bravado, Shirin recovered her scarf, draping it around her shoulders. "I'm not a Roman," she said in a controlled, even tone. "My name is Shirin. What are you called?"

"Penelope," the woman said dismissively. "Stay out of the way. We have to find this device they seek. Be ready to leave."

Before Shirin could respond, the Egyptian spun on her heel and hurried back to the massive, bulky shapes of the coffins. Her eyes now adjusted to the torchlight, Shirin saw the other Daughters were busily levering slab lids from the sarcophagi, grunting and straining. A faded, three-part mural covered the entire rear wall, showing a sun-disk framed by hawk wings and dozens of protective gods.

Suddenly, as Shirin paced along the facing wall, trying to grasp the size and shape of the chamber, the stones under her feet jumped with a thud. Eyes wide, the Khazar woman shrank against the wall, groping for support. Dust trickled down around her in thin, corkscrew streams. The shock in the earth did not repeat and the Daughters-now sliding one of the coffin lids aside with great care-did not appear to have noticed.

That wasn't an earthquake! It was behind me. Shirin turned, hurried along the ledge, looking for a door, an alcove, anything at all. A dozen steps down, she came to the recessed opening and found, to her surprise, a pinhole of glowing light within deeper shadow. Looking over her shoulder, Shirin saw the Egyptian woman Penelope barking orders for her followers to break into the second coffin. From the puzzled, angry look on the woman's face, Shirin guessed there'd been no "device" in the sarcophagus.

Muffled noise came to her ears and she turned back to the point of light, suddenly worried. Inside the recess, there was a curved wall and a stone ledge. Kneeling down, Shirin put her eye to the tiny opening and found herself looking-through delicately painted gauze-into another funeral chamber. This space too was filled with painted round columns, wall mosaics and two stone coffins.

Sparking orange torchlight flared, momentarily blinding her. Shirin drew back. This close to the wall, she could hear sharp voices calling in the room beyond the spy hole. Roman voices. Feeling a chill on her neck, she swallowed and looked again.

Fellaheen in tan-and-white robes swarmed into the chamber, followed by an enormous Numidian and a familiar-looking Latin soldier. The Romans were busy poking and prodding in every crevice and container in the other tomb. Shirin froze. A shape moved across the pinhole, cutting off the light. From only a foot away, she heard a familiar voice.

"This wall is solid," Thyatis called out, rapping her knuckles across the surface of a drum column protruding from the wall of the tomb chamber. Clouds of painted, sparkling dust fell away from each blow. The air in the room grew hazy as the fellaheen, Mithridates and Vladimir made a rough sweep of the chamber. The dais holding the two coffins was raised on a series of steps, with pillars crowding close on either side. Nicholas stood beside the doorway, examining the triangular shape of the door barrier. As the Latin had posited, the slab was keyed to holes in the floor.

There was nothing in the chamber matching their description of the "device."

"How large is this thing?" Vladimir's accent seemed almost humorous in the thick air. He was crouched atop one of the coffins, long fingers tracing the chiseled outline of a king buried in stone. "Could it be inside one of these jenazah?"

Nicholas turned towards his friend, scratching the line of his jaw as he thought. "Well, the one in Rome is as tall as a man, but the bronze disks might be folded up, or packed together…"

Thyatis paused in her examination of the wall, nose twitching. Her sense of smell might not be a match for the Walach, but there was something in the air. A sweet, warm scent like drying roses. She stiffened, memory tugging at the hem of her cloak. Wait! I remember…

"Here!" one of the fellaheen shouted, distracting her. "Master, I've found a hidden door!"

Thyatis leapt down from the ledge, reaching the man's side in an instant. The Egyptian pointed fearfully. Like the column Thyatis had checked, the roundel seemed to be part and parcel of the stone, but some ancient tremor in the earth had split cunning plaster and paint away, revealing a cavity.

"Stand back," Thyatis barked, as the fellaheen crowded up. Mithridates and Vladimir pushed through the men, each man holding an iron-headed sledge. The Roman woman drew her blade, letting the mirror-bright metal rasp from the sheath. Nicholas took up a position on her left, his blade bare, and-for an instant, in the dim light of the torches-the length of metal seemed to gleam with an inner fire.

Thyatis nodded to Mithridates. "Clear the opening."

The African set his shoulders, muscles bulging under his tunic and the sledge whipped into the plaster lathes, shattering the ancient wood. More dust billowed forth, but Mithridates narrowed his eyes and the opening was entirely clear in three more blows.

Thyatis fanned the air with her straw hat. The light of the torches revealed a short passage and a startlingly normal-looking door. Surprised, she felt a breath of cold air brush her face.

"I'll go first," Nicholas said, eagerly shouldering Thyatis aside.

A loud crash echoed through the hidden tomb and Shirin scrambled out of the watch post. The Daughters had frozen in shock at the sound. They were staring in horror toward a second opening to the Khazar woman's left. Another crash followed, then a third. Shirin raised an eyebrow. Well, she thought, I guess the Romans did live to find us!

"Out!" Penelope hissed, harsh voice cutting through the silence and surprise. "Everyone out through the tunnel. Now!" The older woman drew back, her shortsword aimed at the sound.

The women around the second sarcophagus abandoned their tools and ran for the passage, cloaks flying out behind them. Shirin darted across the chamber to the opened coffins. Penelope was in the tunnel mouth, her face a furious glare, beckoning for the Khazar woman to hurry. Behind Shirin, she heard the clatter of men forcing a door open. Faint streaks of light painted the wall above the sarcophagi, thrown by Roman torches. In the poor light, Shirin paused, gazing curiously down upon the centuries-dead figures in the two coffins.

At her left hand, a woman of medium height was fully wrapped in traditional bandages, her hands crossed on her chest, holding a crook and an ankh. A golden mask covered her face and a jeweled, golden sun-disk holding a layered eight-rayed star lay on her breast. The Khazar woman frowned, seeing the star, old memories intruding. How odd… she thought. Why does she bear a crest from old Persepolis? The death masque showed a personage of no great beauty, but even across the centuries Shirin felt a palpable chill to look upon the likeness of Kleopatra, Lord of the Two Lands, Queen and Empress. Small ceramic jars lined the stone bier, wrapped in gold and silver vestments, accompanied by goods of all kinds.

Another crash reverberated through the dusty air. Shirin wrenched her hand away from the star jewel. No time for souvenirs! she thought guiltily. The second coffin held a man-tall, proud, with broad shoulders-though his silver masque revealed a petulant lip and his strength of personality paled in comparison to the Queen. For him, the Khazar woman felt only pity before dismissing him from her mind.

Orange light flared bright against the wall and Shirin faded into deeper shadow. Penelope was already gone, the sound of running feet fading in the tunnel. Halfway up the steps, Shirin paused, looking back into the tomb, wondering if a familiar figure would appear, silhouetted in the light. Instead, a man appeared in the broken door, leading with a long straight sword. The metal flared bright in the darkness and Shirin drew back again.

At her breast, the ruby became suddenly warm and she clasped a hand over the jewel, hiding an unexpected pale red glow. Entirely surprised, Shirin ducked down behind a fallen column, wondering what could possibly have excited such a response in the jewel. Where did Thyatis get this thing?

The Roman soldier crept forward, torch sputtering in one hand. "There are two coffins here," he shouted, "and they've been disturbed!"

The scrape of a sandal on stone registered in the periphery of Thyatis' attention and she spun left, blade rising into guard, even as a hurled spear flashed past. One of the fellaheen staggered, the iron head driven between his shoulder blades with a slapping sound. The man barely had time to cry out in pain before blood flooded his mouth and he was on his hands and knees, shuddering with death tremors.

"Ware!" Thyatis shouted, the tip of her sword flickering in the air. Another spear point lunged out of shadow and was deftly knocked aside. "To me, Romans! To me!" She bounded forward, snatching a dagger from its sheath on her belt with her free hand.

Men rushed around the toppled slab, curly beards gleaming in the light of fallen torches. One of them, towering a head above the others, leapt into Thyatis' path. For a single, frozen second she thought dead Chrosoes had returned to life-so closely did the bareheaded man swinging a spiked mace at her face resemble the King of Kings. She leaned aside, the mace blurring past, and lunged. The tip of her sword sparked from the man's breastplate, then skittered to one side. He jumped back, slapping her thrust aside with his own blade. They circled, the world narrowing down to the scrape and rustle of feet on stone, mirror-bright metal cutting the air, harsh breathing filling their ears.

Beyond the Persian's shoulder, Thyatis caught a glimpse of Mithridates swinging his pry bar over his head like a stave, a wild, hoarse shout roaring from his lips. The fellaheen, pinned against the tomb wall, were wailing in fear, and another hurled spear cut one down.

The Persian lord attacked, mace smashing overhand as he led with his right foot. Thyatis bobbed aside, evading the blow, then slashed her blade at the man's face. His own sword snapped up and sparks shivered in the air. A furious passage followed, blade on blade, the Persian stamping on the attack, Thyatis nimbly evading his powerful strokes. She blocked a sharp cut with the dagger, letting the blades bind, going hilt to hilt with the man. He grunted, feeling the strength in her arm, then shoved.

Thyatis spun aside, letting his motion carry him off-balance, then let her own momentum slam her left elbow into the side of his head. The iron vambrace on her arm cracked against his ear, drawing a shout of pain and spattering blood. She cut viciously with the sword, though the Persian rolled away. The Roman blade scored a long gash across his thigh, just above the knee. He went down.

Another Persian shouted wildly, charging at Thyatis. She whirled, blocking his spear down and away with her sword and dagger en crosse, then snap-kicked him in the face. The Persian staggered, stunned, and Thyatis' wrist flicked over, driving the point of her spatha into his jugular. Choking, the man fell backwards, fingers groping wildly at his throat.

In the same moment, Mithridates bellowed, catching two of the Persian soldiers across the chest with his pry bar, lifting them bodily from the floor. Massive muscles straining, the Numidian slammed them into the nearest pillar with a ringing clang! Breathless, the Persians were flung to the floor, armor creased by the blow. Grinning wildly, Mithridates sprang forward through the gap. Another Persian soldier threw himself at the Numidian, cutting sideways with both hands on his longsword. Mithridates parried with one end of his iron staff, smashing the blade from the man's hand, then lashed the bar across the Persian's face. Metal met metal with a ringing bang! and the side of the Persian's helmet caved in, spraying blood across a nearby statue. The stricken man crumpled like an empty sack.

Thyatis wrenched her attention away, wildly parrying an overhand blow from the big Persian's sword. In her brief moment of inattention, he had regained his feet. Now he attacked furiously and Thyatis met him blade for blade in a whirl of strike and parry and counterstroke. They lunged back and forth across the stone floor, barely cognizant of the melee swirling around them.

Her arms burning with fatigue, Thyatis slowed a fraction as she tried to evade another blow. The haft of the mace slammed down on her right arm, knocking the dagger loose. The blade spun away across the floor. Bloodfire surged, driving her limbs to new speed. She slammed the Persian's blade away, then rotated smartly, hewing down with the spatha in both hands. The man tried to wrench the mace away, but the keen edge of the Roman sword struck the wooden haft and squealed through dense oak.

Casting the stub away with a grimace, the Persian circled, panting, both hands on the hilts of his blade.

Thyatis did not pause, rushing the man, her blade singing in a deadly figure eight. The Persian parried, then blocked, grunting as the Roman woman put her shoulder into the blow. They locked hilts, sandals sliding on the bloody floor. Her vision narrowed to a shimmering gray-ringed tunnel, Thyatis realized the man hadn't used the point of his blade at all, relying instead on a blizzard of cuts and slashes. Blade shirring on his, she flicked the tip of her spatha up. Eyes wide, the man flung his head back, narrowly avoiding losing his lower jaw to the bright metal.

Taking the opening, Thyatis slammed his breastplate with a lightning-quick kick, sending him to the floor in a clatter of metal. Regaining her balance, she danced in, stabbing viciously as he scrambled away, sword lost, across the stone floor.

An upflung hand took one of her blows, the spatha biting into splinted mail on the Persian's forearm. Thyatis wrenched the blade back, then sprang away as the man kicked at her legs.

Relieved of immediate engagement, the scene around Thyatis sprang back into focus. Frenzied words, spoken in some unknown tongue, reverberated in the air, sending a wild chill washing over Thyatis' arms. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mithridates charge a portly, middle-aged man in desert robes, the iron bar whirling above his head like a scythe. The Persian made a stabbing motion in the air, his voice rolling like thunder. Vladimir loped forward, a gore-streaked axe in his hands. Nicholas was looking up from a dying Persian, surprised, the brilliant ruby glow of his longsword shining in his eyes. Dead and wounded men littered the floor.

"Sorcerer!" Thyatis shouted, hurling herself behind the nearest pillar. A violent alizarin flare followed hard on her shout, coupled with an enormous, ringing crack! Tremendous heat billowed past and Thyatis ground her face into the column, eyes squeezed shut. Even through her lids, she caught a glimpse of the room blazing with witch light and felt her armor swell with sudden heat.

The echo of the blast rang and rang, reverberating from the walls. Plaster caught fire, ignited by the flames. Thyatis scuttled out, low to the floor, and saw the Persian wizard stagger to his feet, haloed by a wheel of fire. Mithridates' corpse toppled to the ground, torn in half by the blast. Droplets of molten iron hissed and sizzled on the stones. Face contorted in hate, Thyatis snatched up a discarded hammer and overhanded it at the Persian.

The metal head struck the air with a tinny, ringing sound and then the wooden handle burst into flame. Stunned, the Persian wizard flinched back and the corona of near-invisible fire around him flickered out of existence. Before Thyatis could react, a huge groaning sound filled the room. Feeling the floor tremble under her feet, the Roman woman jumped back, groping for the shelter of her column.

To her right, one of the pillars-shattered by the sorcerous blast-cracked, splitting lengthwise. Stone and debris cascaded down. The entire room shivered, stone grinding on stone. As Thyatis looked up, a queasy feeling roiling in her stomach, the ceiling spiderwebbed with cracks, jetting dust, rippling like a lake disturbed by a fallen stone.

— |-

"Go, go, go!" Penelope, seamed face twisted into a rictus of commingled fear and blazing anger, wrenched Shirin along the corridor, flinging the younger woman forward. Ears still ringing from the mysterious blast, the Khazar woman picked up her robe and sprinted up the tunnel. The entire tomb seemed to sway, the ground still trembling with motion.

Ducking under the lintel of a corridor junction, Shirin turned, staring back down the tunnel. The Egyptian woman came up limping, coughing in a cloud of billowing white dust. "Go." She shoved Shirin out of the way, falling heavily into the rough-hewn room. "Turn right and climb the ramp!"

Penelope fell to her knees, tangled in the loose cloth of her robes, a harsh gasp wrenched from thin lips as her left foot touched the ground. The ceiling groaned in counterpoint, countless tons of rock shifting minutely. Gritting her teeth against the choking cloud, Shirin hooked an arm under the older woman's shoulder and dragged her up. "We're both getting out," she hissed, hoisting Penelope onto her shoulders. Despite her imposing personality, the Egyptian felt spindly and bird-like, light on Shirin's back.

Without waiting for another tremor, the Khazar woman sprinted up the right-hand tunnel.

At the top of the ramp, the corridor split again and the other Daughters were waiting, eyes wide in fear. Shirin staggered to a halt, Penelope's forearm tight around her neck.

"Run," the old Egyptian woman barked at her followers. "Make sure no one's watching the Hunter's door!" Shirin made to follow, but Penelope slapped her breast hard. "There… the statue."

Shirin ran to an alcove holding a cat-headed statue girded with spears and banded armor. Favoring her ankle, Penelope swung down and leaned against the wall. Grimacing, the old Egyptian slammed the pommel of her knife against the god's chest. Pottery cracked, then broke under a second blow. Shirin, pushing aside curiosity, lent her own weight to the effort, shattering chipped edges, revealing a cavity inside the statue.

"Grasp hold of the loop," Penelope gasped, one hand-now streaked with blood from lacerated knuckles-groping inside the opening. Shirin thrust her own hand in, found a waxed, slippery length of rope and pulled. There was a distant ratcheting sound and she felt a heavy resistance on the cord. Penelope grabbed hold of the ancient black rope as it emerged from the broken statue. Pulling together, both women strained against the line, bracing their feet against the statue pediment.

The clanking sound rose to a sharp pitch, then suddenly tension released on the line. Shirin fell heavily, cracking her hip on the floor. A dull, thundering boom sounded in the distance and grit puffed from the broken statue. Penelope rose wearily, favoring her leg. She grinned ferociously in the light of a sputtering, broken lamp.

"Sleep well, old Queen," she barked, laughing like a hyena. "Rest in the earth, forever undisturbed by the sons of Herakles the defiler!" A claw-like hand gripped Shirin's shoulder, sharpened nails digging through the cloth of her tunic. "Come, child, we've only moments to escape."

— |-

"Get up!" Thyatis shouted as grit rained down from the groaning ceiling. She kicked Vladimir over, saw he was breathing-though stunned-and grasped his wrist. The Walach was surprisingly heavy, all corded muscle and bone, but she brooked no resistance and dragged him to his feet. Pushing him ahead of her, Thyatis scuttled towards the entrance. The floor rippled under her feet, shuddering in response to a new creaking in the walls. The big Persian shouted in alarm.

Ignoring the enemy and the trembling walls, Thyatis shoved Vladimir through the half-opening beside the toppled slab, then jumped through herself. Nicholas scrambled after and Thyatis didn't wait, bolting across the outer chamber for the ramp leading up to the surface. A rolling series of thunderous cracks followed, slamming down behind them. Thyatis vaulted a wooden casket of tiny statues, skidded on an uneasy floor and slammed into the wall beside the tunnel entrance.

Vladimir, eyes wide in fear, scuttled past on all fours and up the ramp.

"Come on!" Thyatis shouted at Nicholas. The Roman ran towards her, his footing poor as the floor rippled and buckled, slabs canting up at strange angles. He leapt towards her, catching her outstretched hand. A massive block of stone plunged from the ceiling behind Nicholas, smashing on the floor, sending flakes of sandstone whistling through the air. Thyatis ducked, feeling splinters ring from her armor. Then they were both scrambling up the ramp.

Another block broke free with a roar and slammed down near the entrance to the tunnel. Dust and smoke from burning plaster billowed into the room, obscuring two figures as they stumbled and staggered out of the tomb chamber. A feeble spark of light flared from an upraised hand and the wizard appeared out of the murk, half-carried by the big Persian.

At the top of the ramp, Vladimir sprang to his feet in the octagonal chamber. Thyatis saw him start back in surprise, then the domed roof splintered, raining chunks of stone and wooden supports into the room.

"Go," she screamed, grasping hold of Nicholas' collar. Choking, the Latin scrabbled at the stone and Thyatis threw him into the chamber. At the same moment, the roof of the tunnel buckled, and came sliding down with a roar.

Flinging herself forward, Thyatis rolled out of the opening just before a granite slab crashed down, blocking the passage. Half-blinded by dust, now plunged into complete darkness, Thyatis scrambled across the chamber, working from hazy memory. Three steps on, she crashed into a dazed Nicholas. "Vladimir! Where are you?"

"Here," came a hoarse shout from the gloom. Thyatis shuffled forward, one arm under his, her right foot now bare on the rubble-strewn floor. Cursing the fickle, ungracious gods, she led with a groping hand, feeling rock splinters under an unexpectedly bare foot, then suddenly found Vladimir's shoulder. "Follow me!" The Walach barked, relieved.

Together, the three Romans fled up the ramp, Vladimir in the lead.

Behind them, the tomb rippled and shook as ancient balances and weights released, each corridor and chamber roof collapsing in violent sequence. A choking, smoke-stained wind rushed past Thyatis, the tomb's breath exhaled in final death. The walls groaned again, but the Walach gave a glad cry. "I can see the sky!"

Thyatis looked up, eyes smarting with tears, and saw a faint rectangular outline ahead filled with the cold gleam of starlight.

A dull series of booms rattled the ground, then tapered off into silence. In the pale moonlight, Thyatis could barely make out the slow, rolling cloud of dust and smoke issuing from the tomb door. When complete silence returned, the Roman woman turned away and trudged back across the drifting sand to the others and their camels. Nicholas was waiting, a few paces from Vladimir and Betia, who stared at the ground, each lost in their own thoughts.

"Anything?" The Latin's voice was still hoarse from smoke.

Thyatis shook her head. "No, no one came out."

"Good riddance," Nicholas said bitterly, sheathed blade held against his chest in an oddly intimate pose. "Did the amulet ever react?"

"No." Thyatis kept her voice level. She hadn't spared a thought for the prince's talisman, though it was still tucked safely between her tunic and armor. Aside from its first trembling when they approached, she didn't remember any odd sensation. In the struggle in the tomb, she'd had no moment to spare for any warning or sign the amulet might have given. "If a telecast was in there, we didn't get close enough."

Nicholas spit on the ground, silently furious. "What a waste."

"True enough." Thyatis nodded, feeling a cold, empty sensation at the thought of Mithridates' easy smile. Bending her head, she said a short prayer for the departed dead. But you will not go into the darkness alone, comrade, she thought. The Aryan lords will bear you golden cups, filled with new wine. Their sorcerer will be your servant in high-ceilinged halls, overlooking fields of golden wheat. She tilted her head towards the camels. "Let's move-the Persians may have friends about."

The Latin nodded sharply and turned away. Thyatis walked up to Betia and Vladimir, shrugging the scabbard of her own sword to a more comfortable position on her shoulder. "Vladimir, thank you," she said softly. "We wouldn't have gotten out without you and your nose." The barbarian gave her a blank, exhausted look in return, then nodded sadly.

"There's blood debt aplenty," he said, then coughed. Betia helped him stand up. The Walach managed a wry grimace in the place of a smile. "We can't pay Mithridates back… but another grain for that wizard to do his work and we'd have all been roasted on a spit."

Thyatis nodded in agreement, clasping wrists with the barbarian. "But we live," she said.

"We live." Vladimir limped away towards the pile of baggage. Nicholas was already loading the camels with bags of water and bundles of clothing and tools.

Thyatis looked down at Betia, her own weariness and grief undisguised. "Did you see anything?"

Betia nodded, her eyes smudged pits of darkness in the moonlight. Her small face seemed carved from ivory. "I saw the Persians come," the little Gaul said softly, "but before I could creep down into the tunnel, two more… men came."

"Two?" Thyatis tensed, feeling the darkness-which had seemed almost comforting, a dark cloak laid across the land, hiding them from any prying eyes-fill with malice. "What kind of men? Persians?"

Betia shook her head minutely. "I don't think so. I could not see their faces and all their garb and armor was black as pitch. They… crept along the ground like Vladimir when he hunts. They were following our tracks."

"Where did they go?"

The little Gaul pointed off into the night, towards the jumble of pillars and wind-carved spires rising from the desert to the north. "That way. They didn't come back." She shivered. "I think they were ghosts."

"Why?"

Betia's face remained impassive, though Thyatis regretted the disbelief in her voice. The girl deserved better-she was no apprentice, not any more!

"When they were well gone, I went down onto the sand," the Gaul said sharply. "They left no tracks. No trace at all. There was a strange feeling in the air."

Thyatis nodded. "If the Persians have allied themselves with infernal powers, they will receive aid from unexpected sources." She shook out her shoulders. "The more distance between us and this place, the better."

Betia said nothing. Thyatis made to take her hand, but the little Gaul flinched away.

"Keep watch behind," Thyatis said, pretending nothing had happened. The girl would deal with these matters in her own way. There was little time for anything but flight now. "Nicholas, let's move. There are lamiae abroad tonight!"

The camels made a low, grumbling sound, but the Latin had bound their mouths closed to prevent the ungainly creatures from bellowing. Vladimir moved downwind, a bundle heavy on his back. Thyatis cast an eye around, making sure they'd left nothing behind. Nicholas rapped the lead camel on the haunch with his switch and the animal shuffled to motion, broad three-toed feet splaying on the sand.

"What did she see?" Nicholas strode up, the hood of his cloak cast back on broad shoulders.

"Two figures," Thyatis answered, settling her feet in a new pair of boots. They were too big for her feet, but Mithridates didn't need them anymore, did he? "Betia didn't think they were human. The only other players in this game are the Persians, so I think they summoned special help-but it didn't quite arrive in time. They must have gotten something from our poet too."

"Huh. Doesn't matter now, does it? Not with the tomb buried under countless tons of sand and rock." Nicholas' voice was very sour in the darkness. Thyatis couldn't see his face in the moonlight, but knew the man was grinding his teeth. "We didn't cover our tracks very well. They could have followed us out here."

"Into a dead end," she said with a certain wry tone. They began to descend from the ridge, down into one of the long, stony valleys running east and west, parallel to the prevailing winds. The footing was poor, but they could make better time than on the soft slopes of the dunes. "Now the question is… did the Persians know where the 'device' really is? I think they didn't-not if they followed us out here."

"True," Nicholas said, his mood lifting. "The Cypriot was telling the truth, then! He hadn't time to contact them between finding his blessed lading document and our arrival." He stopped, though the camel kept ambling along. "Should we go back?"

Thyatis bit her lip, considering the situation. She wished the Duchess were here. Then the conniving old woman could clean up her own mess! The needs of the moment are more pressing, she realized. If the prince's toy spoke true, there is a telecast in there. Is it safe to leave behind, buried in the sand? The Persians might dig it out. Thyatis realized she was fingering the amulet in kind of a nervous tic. Nicholas was staring at her, hands on his hips, head canted to one side.

"No," Thyatis started to say, then stopped. She suddenly recognized the scent she had tasted in the tomb air. Unbidden memories rose, lifting her head with a start.

"What in Hel are you smiling about?" Nicholas growled, picking at the scab around his eye. "Do we go back or not?"

"No." Thyatis shook her head, schooling her lips to a grim, thoughtful line. But her heart was singing, though a corner of her mind cautioned vigorously against disappointment. The coffins were disturbed, she remembered. Someone else was in the tomb with us. She was in the tomb. I smelled her perfume. That's why this toy didn't react-the telecast had already been taken away!

Near giddy with relief, Thyatis let herself breathe, feeling a vast weight lift from her.

"No," she said again, suppressing a wild grin, "there's nothing there. Just coffins and broken stone and dead men. Let them dig all they like." Then gladness fled sickeningly and she almost turned around, to run back towards the buried tomb, to dig wildly in the collapsed rubble. Gritting her teeth, Thyatis started walking east again. There is another entrance, she reminded herself, another way out. The telecast was not there! They-she-escaped, they carried the device away in time. Betia's warning was heeded. Please, goddess, let it be so.

"What about the other one, then?" Nicholas sounded surly again. Thyatis barely heard him.

"That one," she heard herself say, distantly, "we'll find without them finding us."

Fallen stone creaked and grumbled, slowly settling. The sandstone pinnacle above the tomb adjusted itself, squeaking and shifting, to the abused fracture lines running through its stony heart. In one of the tunnels-only partially filled with fallen debris-the dust settled in thin, veil-like sheets. At the end of the corridor two black shapes knelt amid haphazard slabs and jammed, splintered sandstone blocks.

Without the hiss of strained breath, in silence save for the scraping grind of stone on stone, they lifted a massive plinth. One figure held the slab upright, while the other crawled beneath-heedless of the mass teetering above-and dug into the looser shale below. After a moment, someone coughed and a hand waved weakly from the rubble. Obsidian fingers seized the collar of the man's armor and dragged him forth. Another body was recovered in a similar manner, then all four clambered back up the sloping tunnel and out under the night sky.

The two dark shapes dropped their burdens on the sand, letting Patik and Artabanus sprawl on the cooling ground. The wizard coughed weakly, his face streaked with blood, a purpling bruise spreading on the side of his face and shoulder. Despite his wounds, the middle-aged Persian clutched a tangled leather sandal to his chest.

"You breathe," one of the dark shapes said in a cold voice. "Speak." It rolled the big man over with the point of an armored shoe.

Patik gasped, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth and his eyes wavered open. The looming figure was only darkness against darkness, vaguely outlined by missing stars. "The… cough… Romans found nothing. The tomb was… wheeze… empty."

The dark shape considered this for a moment, attention turned away from the Persian noble. Patik let himself slump back into the rocky sand, laboring to breathe. His entire body was gripped by twisting, muscle-deep pain. Like the wizard, he was badly bruised, his ear still bleeding.

"The Accursed were here," the figure said, dead voice ringing hollow in the close-fitting helmet. "They would not have come, were the sepulcher truly empty."

Cloth rustled, then metal sang on metal. Patik managed to open his eyes and saw the shape raise something-a curved blade? — against the night sky. Frigid blue-white light played along the athame, sparking and sputtering.

"Uttish'tha," commanded the voice, harsh syllables echoing back from the standing stones. "Ash'hrrada!"

Patik felt Artabanus flinch and the wizard moaned, one trembling hand trying to block out the sight of the sky. The big Persian narrowed his eyes-crawling blue light played across his face-briefly illuminating the sandstone wall towering above them. The light burned his skin and he turned away, suddenly afraid he might be blinded by the witch light.

"Uttish'THA!" The sound boomed in the air, making the sand jump and quiver. Sharp, cold wind played in the avenues between the pinnacles, tugging at Patik's hair, swirling the cloaks of the dark shapes. Again, the earth groaned and shifted, then settled.

The dreadful bluish light died and slowly the stars reemerged from the encompassing dark. Patik shuddered, realizing something vast had obscured the winking, faint lights during the strange interlude. He was aware of darkness withdrawing into the sky, folding in upon itself.

Only the Shanzdah remained and the Captain turned to look upon Patik again, two faint points of radiance burning in the cowl of his hood. "We will follow the Romans. They will lead us to the prize, the duradarshan, the Gate unopened and unrevealed." An ironbound hand reached down and dragged the Persian to his feet, as effortlessly as a man might lift a child.

"You will run ahead, Great Prince, our hound." Something like laughter issued from cracked, withered lips. "And we will course behind, hunting with bright spears."

Thunder growled in the distance, though no flare of lightning lit the night. Shirin, laboriously climbing the slope of a dune at the edge of the plain of stones, turned. Penelope, still riding on her back, thin hands clutched at her breast, lifted her head. Both women looked back, seeing nothing but darkness in the shallow valley. The other Daughters continued on, climbing the dune ridge, keeping themselves below the unseen, night-shrouded summit.

"What was that?" Shirin whispered, though she was sure they had left the Romans and Persians miles behind. Gusts of night wind lapped around her ankles, sending individual grains of sand stinging against her skin.

"Keep moving," croaked the old woman. "Something foul is abroad on the plain. We should not wait for it to find us."

Shirin resumed her steady pace. The slope of the dune was long and there were many miles to cover before dawn. Haste in such soft sand would not be rewarded, save with useless weariness.

After a time, as they approached the crest, Shirin turned her head questioningly. "Mother," she said, using a term often heard on the Island during her abortive training, "in the tomb-the dead Queen bore a blazon-an eight-rayed star set in gold. Was that her personal crest?"

Soft, breathy laughter answered and the Khazar woman frowned, thinking the old Egyptian would not reply. But then Penelope said, in a sly voice: "Her family held the star of Vergina in high regard. From the first days of their house, the sunburst rode on their shields and banners."

"I've seen it before-the same star or rayed sun-in…" Shirin paused, swallowing the words… in Ctesiphon, in the house of my husband, King of Kings, Khusro Anushirwan, or on the ruined buildings of old Babylon… "…in the east."

"Many kings ape the guise of the Lord of Men," the old woman said. Shirin could feel Penelope's thin body shaking with laughter through her back. "Yet, Great Egypt had better claim than most to the Temeniad crest."

"What do you mean?" Shirin frowned, plowing step-by-step up over the dune crest and down the opposite slope. The moon was riding high in the sky, illuminating the long, rippled face of the ridge with gleaming silver. Ahead, the shapes of the other Daughters cast long shadows across pure, unblemished sand. "The sons of Temenos are the house of Royal Macedon. Why does-"

A spidery hand closed over Shirin's lips and she stopped.

"Hush," Penelope said, whispery old voice soft in the Khazar's ear. "Some things should not be said under such a baleful sky, certainly not aloud. Let us say not all roots were cut that black day in Amphipolis when Cassander hewed down the last saplings of the Agead oak. One seedling escaped, and found new, royal soil in Egypt where he grew and thrived under the Saviour Ptolemy's name. Our buried Queen was the last of a noble line…" Penelope's voice trailed away, lost in sadness.

Shirin made a face, shaking her head. The thin hand withdrew and she tramped on, under the thin moon, into the desert. Far ahead, the sky was hazed with mist and fog, for the delta sweltered in the summer heat, even at night. Shirin thought she could make out the waters of Mareotis, sparkling under the moon.

Encompassing pitchy darkness drew back, broken by green fire licking among gauze-wrapped limbs and fallen chunks of stone. The lip of the stone coffin holding Kleopatra had held back the falling slabs and shattered blocks. She lay, buried deep under the ruined ceiling, her golden mask undisturbed and the rayed sun on her breast hummed with emerald fire. Viridian tongues flickered and coursed around half-hidden rings and intersections of ancient bronze.

Far above, a booming voice died and a black knife lowered. The sky shuddered, darkness receding. Greenish flame wicked down, pooling into ancient glyphs etched in bronze, then faded into night's embrace.

The Queen slept, her treasures deeply buried, safe again from the grasping hands of men.