then the spraying and splashing of blood drowned all sound. In seconds, the men were drained dry. Their blood filled the silver pan to overflowing, spilled to the stone, and ran in rivers around their knees.
For the merest instance, as their bodies sagged, Amenstar saw an iridescent glimmer, a silver-purple flash travel between her two friends and the bloody silver bowl, then it winked out. Vizars tugged the dead men aside and without ceremony stuffed the carcasses under a big table in the corner.
Retrieving the red-brimming bowl, the grand vizar fished out the Star of Cursrah and wiped it clean with linen rags. Amenstar gaped. The milky-white fire opal had changed, and was now as red as fresh blood. With great dignity, the grand vizar draped the double chains over Star's shaven head so the bloody gem rested on her bandaged breast.
'The final ingredient, samira. Your friends' life-force, if not their very souls, has been transferred to the gem, and so to you. Their spirits will sustain you for centuries, if need be. For you shall not sleep as does your family, samira. A guardian must be alert, awake. From you we have fashioned, for the first time in Cursrah's history, a living mummy. You will be the Protector, and guard the family you failed so treacherously. Do you not see the irony, dear Amenstar? In life, you shirked your duty. In unlife, you are forced to perform it.'
Ignoring Star's garbled cries and weeping, the vizars worked quickly. Star's head was bound in bandages and painted with resin, avoiding only her eyes and mouth and nose, then all wrapped in gilt cloth. Amenstar could see only blurs through a small, gauzy slit. The painted car-tonnage mask was lowered over her head and bound in place, and Star saw only blackness.
The living mummy felt the vizars hoist her onto a hardwood pallet. She didn't see the acolytes whisk her down the dark tunnel. On the lowermost level, where resided the mummies of Star's ancestors, arid not far from the sealed doors of the replica court where slept Star's family, gaped a dark, narrow vault. Inside waited a stack of bricks, a bucket of wet mortar, and a sarcophagus with a lid painted in Amenstar's image. With no more ceremony, the living mummy was tilted into the coffin. The heavy lid was jostled into place and sealed with resin pitch, and the sarcophagus stood upright. It could stand that way forever, if need be.
The grand vizar asked her acolytes to join hands before the sarcophagus. She thanked them for their hard work, gently touching each upon the brow. One by one, the acolytes collapsed, dead, their brains blasted to atoms. The grand vizar didn't bother to enchant their corpses, for the Protector needed no protection.
Unaccustomed to masonry, working by guttering lanterns, the grand vizar bricked up the entrance to the vault. Mortar dripped and oozed in uneven globs, even that labor was finally finished.
One last task remained. Stepping to the sarcophagus, pressing her brow against the cool wood, the grand vizar chanted in a voice hoarse and low. She laid upon herself the same curse laid upon Gheqet and Tafir.
Mashing her brow against Star's image, she finished the incantation with a shout, 'I welcome a better life!'
For a second, a silver-purple glimmer flashed in the black cell as the grand vizar's life-force, and her magical might, were transferred to the coffin's occupant.
An empty shell, the grand vizar's corpse fell at Star's painted feet.
Inside the wooden sarcophagus, Samira Amenstar, the last living Cursrahn, wept, cried, pleaded, and prayed. Despair overwhelmed her, for she'd learned that there were fates worse than death. By her own deeds and her family's cruelty, she was condemned to a living death, to be always awake, always trapped, always regretting.
Her only escape now would be from her own mind, a long, agonizing fall into total insanity.
And insane she'd become, for the only sound Amenstar heard were the screams of her dying friends, ringing in her ears.
Forever.
17
The Year of the Gauntlet
'They died?' asked Reiver, seven thousand, four hundred, and seventeen years later.
'Their souls are trapped in a moonstone?' echoed Hakiim.
Amber nodded dully. Her companions massaged their throats. All spoke quietly, having no wish to attract bandits, and out of respect for the dead. Crouching in an unused alcove, they nursed a single torch to keep light low.
'The mummy is you,' breathed Hakiim.
'No!' Amber almost shrieked, then shook her head. Sand rained from her headscarf; a vestige of the wind walker assault. 'No, the mummy is Amenstar, not me!'
'But they're our ancient counterparts,' said Reiver. 'You said their fates must be linked to ours.'
'No, they mustn't,' objected Hakiim. 'They got killed… or worse…'
'Our feet were guided here, though I can't guess by which god's caprice,' Amber said. Her voice quavered, still shaky from seeing the grisly deaths and Star's frightening imprisonment. 'At least our goal is clear.'
'I'll say,' piped Hakiim. 'We climb the next staircase and run for home!'
Reiver agreed.
'No, shame on you both,' Amber snapped. 'Didn't you hear? Those aren't statues, they're living people about to be resurrected. Imagine five hundred bloodthirsty warriors led by a power-mad bakkal. What's the first city they'll attack? The closest-a city named after Calim's most hated enemy-Memnon… our home!'
'Memnon has three thousand soldiers,' objected Reiver. 'It's called the Garrison City and the City of Soldiers-'
'If they're posted at home,' Amber interrupted. 'If the pasha hasn't sent them away on spring campaign to attack Tethyr. Five hundred warriors could swarm over Memnon's walls and slaughter half the populace. It'll be worse than the Great Fires. They'll put our parents and families to the sword, just as Samir Pallaton's army devastated Cursrah.'
'Troops would come from Calimport-' began Hakiim.
'Too late-and they'd be blasted by Cursrah's death-worshiping vizars. The Cursrahns could possess ancient and powerful magicks that Memnon's own vizars couldn't stop. The bakkal himself was a priest-king. He'd have necromantic powers we can't imagine, and don't forget the bakkal's treasure, tons of it. It's enough to hire every mercenary in Calimshan. This army could conquer Memnon in days. Burn, pillage, loot, and enslave our citizens… we'd have no home to return to.'
'If the bakkal and his army awaken,' hedged Hakiim.
'They'll awaken,' Amber assured him. She felt bone weary from constant fighting and fretting. 'Cursrah prepared their sleepers well. They forgot nothing, and now the city's coming to life. The army'll be loosed like war dogs before Calimshan even knows it. It's up to us to stop them, right here. It's my duty.'
'Yours?' echoed the two.
'You said Amenstar wasn't you,' insisted Reiver. 'If she failed, why is it your duty to set her mistakes right?'
'Because,' Amber struggled to explain, 'Amenstar learned her lesson too late. She shirked her duties-yes, as did many others, but she also-and events spun out of control like a cyclone. In the end Star realized her mistakes and has probably regretted them for centuries. Now she's trapped as a mummy and asks me for help. I swear, by all the gods of sea and sky, she'll get it, even if I must descend alone.'
'What can we do?' Hakiim was gentle, no longer arguing. 'How can we stop the bakkal's army? We're only three, and none of us fighters.'
'We'll-We can-' Amber halted. 'I don't know what we'll do, but someone else does.'
'Who?'
'Amenstar.'
'The air is green-and it stinks!'
'Hush,' Amber hissed.
She raised her torch and the flame jiggled because her hand shook. She peered across the corridor, hoping and yet fearing to see the mummy. Squinting didn't help. A green fog or smoke permeated the air, rank as burning
