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.