The Feather on My Scale: Ch 16

“He is Apophis descended upon us, My Lord!” Adom protested adamantly.

The blond muttered quietly to the black-haired man next to him who was watching the lectern priest. The black-haired man shook his head and asked a question, motioning with his head my way. The blond motioned appeasingly to Adom and myself. Ptolemy shifted closer to my shoulder, staring the two down. The red-haired man next to the one Adom was proclaiming to be Apophis flinched at the blond’s tone and shrank back a little.

“You think they’re dangerous, m’Lord?” Ptolemy whispered in my ear.

“I believe Adom is making them dangerous,” I returned.

“Who are you?” Ptolemy demanded of the congregation littering our throne room.

“Infidels,” Adom sneered too close in my ear.

“Yes. We’ve got that, Adom. Please, for once in your milk-paste life, shut up and let the adults do their job before I call forth Anubis to gather you,” I returned the hiss with my own. He paled at the reprimand. Wash clinked his was-sceptre, dismissing the man from the dais.

“Thank you for seeing us, Pharaoh Ramses,” the blond man greeted pleasantly when the chaos surrounding me had died down. 

I snapped my focus back to him. “His Eminence joined with Re almost a decade and a half ago.”

The man’s face sank in confusion and disappointment. “I am so sorry, sire.” He bowed, his hand hovering over his heart in uncertainty. Adom moved forward in anger. Wash stalled him, descending the dais to place his hook across the Lectern’s path. The blond man glanced back to the man with the tattooed number on his cheek and exchanged a couple quiet words and a shake of his head.

“You do not serve me. I am neither your king nor pharaoh. Do not address me as such.” I motioned the title away.

“What is an appropriate title by which you would have us call you?” The blond man bowed carefully at the hip. He had been raised in Hawria. His actions were measured and stiff, a sign of high breeding.

“I am Henu, son of Ramses,” I answered before Adom could put his foot in his mouth again. Next time he did, I’d make him choke on it.

“Henu, sir, forgive me that I would make such an ungracious mistake. I come to you as herald.” He swallowed, his eyes sweeping the tiled floor as he drew his hand to indicate the three men and the woman at his side.

“You would dare suggest there be any being higher than the embodiment of His Holiness!” Adom screeched, pushing past Wash. A humanoid female jackal rose from the floor in front of him, bearing a pair of knives. The priest shrieked, backing up a pace from the apparition. “Anput! Please,” he begged the apparition. The woman pursued him, her eyes fixated on him. The knives in her hands flicked in and out of sight as she spun them. Adom turned and ran as she chased him to the door of the throne room leading to the main temple. The woman evaporated at the door.

Wash returned to the dais, a gleam of sweat at his temple. His fingers shook. I snapped for a servant and demanded a small bottle of honey be brought to me immediately. He stood out of reach for me to be able to draw his fingers into mine unnoticed. Frowning, I turned to the black-haired man with the tattoo. “Say again?” I asked him to repeat his broken question.

“Man is Ustor?” the man nodded to Wash, concern creasing his lips thin.

“Ustor?” I was unfamiliar with the term.

The black-haired man turned to his translator and asked another question as the redhead slipped fingers to the herald’s hand. I rose at the motion, fascinated to see someone repeat what I did with Wash. Ptolemy stilled me with a hand on my shoulder. The woman and the brown-haired man closed rank around the redhead at my suddenness, not the black-haired man like I would have assumed by the way he was deferred to.  The guards flicked concerned glances amongst themselves, spears coming down around the room.

“Hold!” I demanded, silencing my men. They looked to me, none too thrilled as I eased out of Ptolemy’s grasp and descended the dais about the same time my servant returned with a cut glass bottle of warmed honey on a tray. I took the bottle and motioned for the guards to leave us. They hesitated before a ripple of water rose around the group in the centre of the throne room and myself, rushing out towards the guards. Crocodiles fell and rose through the water and the floor. They gasped, racing from the room to follow Adom.

With witnesses gone that I cared about, I handed the bottle to Wash as he sank to the ground, laying his staff across his lap. He guzzled the fluid as he studied the tiles in the ceiling.

“He is Ustor.” The black-haired man reiterated.

“What is Ustor?” I asked before Ptolemy put himself in front of me as bodyguard. “Ptol, please. Let’s try for civil.”

“I do not trust them, sir.” He raised his lips in disgust but stepped aside.

“Tempestatis?” the black-haired man asked the blond.

“Your priest, he is Mubkharatan?” the blond man, Tempestatis asked.

“How are you so fluent in Hawrian?” I demanded, his cadence chewing at me in its stoic familiarity. The blond turned to the redhead at his side and the black-haired man, mumbling again. The redhead let go of his hand. The black-haired man asked something harshly before stepping aside to give the man room. The blond nodded and pulled the grey scarf from around his neck, a bright white scar flashing. Fingering the buttons on his shirt, he sighed with frustration. He turned his back to me and shrugged the garment off. A massive ibis headdress in black, teal, and red stared back at me, stretch marks and age fading the pattern. 

Not possible. My heart beat harder in my chest.

“The House of Thoth died out with the death of the heir sixteen years ago!” Wash protested from the ground.

The blond man turned back to me, the sign of Horus branded above his heart. “The son of Thoth destroyed his own house as a Mubkharatan.” The man put a hand over the sign of Horus and bowed once more. “I am Nour Abubakar, rightful heir to the House of Thoth, Keeper of the Library of Alexander, servant to the House of Re.”

“Nour Abubakar? They call you another name, Tempestatis? You are now of Easimal?” I pressed through the shock of discovering the House of Thoth had not fallen. The Key to the Library had been found. Surely the documents of the Subgalaxia transfer had been preserved.

“I am known as Tempestatis amongst my people due to my Catalyst.” He held a hand out for a gentle twister of flame to rise from his palm, the redhead touching his bare back.

“And the others?” I asked, flicking a glance to the rest watching Nour for direction.

“Co-leaders, Maria Mater and Nigrae Lunam of Easimal, Nigrae Sanctus, and Detractisque Corticibus. We come in order to seek an alliance with Hawria in the protection of the Mubkharatan,” he explained. “It is good to see one cared for so close to the royal head. Times must be changing if it is so.”

The brown-haired man slipped a metal box into Nour’s fingers as the man sank to the floor across from Wash and dumped out a stack of metal circles. The others closed rank around him as he carefully sorted the stacks over and over in a pattern.

“Hawria not first language. Difficult. I am sorry,” Lunam apologized.

“You are of Malak?” I asked, motioning to my cheek in mimic of where his tattoo was intersected by a deep scar.

“No longer. Memory Hades Purge?” he asked.  I shook my head at the term.

“Do you remember The Roar of Sekhmet?” Nour asked from the ground as he continued counting the tokens.  It had been quite a few years since that fateful day in Malak. I nodded, turning back to Lunam. Nour spoke for the man. “Lunam is Sekhmet.”

I turned to the black-haired man in horror. The man who had wiped out almost fifty thousand people in one day stood in my throne room trying to formulate my language and appearing abashed for doing so poorly. The man asked after the titles Nour was using. Nour replaced the coins back into his box and rose, handing the box back to Corticibus who shoved it into a thick canvas bag. Ptolemy drew his sword at the name, pushing me behind him. Wash looked up at me in confused terror before scuttling from his spot on the floor, the bottle dropping with a clank.

Lunam chuckled at Nour’s explanation of the name.  The redhead, Sanctus shared the humour. I studied them and their ease. Wash slipped his fingers into mine and reached a hand out to draw up the blue-green depths of the bay of Nile around us, fish swimming over our heads. Lunam stared around at the space in enthralled fascination. Not the reaction I was expecting. I had hoped for terror. The superstitious of the palace were easily swayed with Wash’s power. His fingers tightened in my hand as he worked crocodiles into the convincing illusion. The man knew no fear. He approached one of the creatures, running his fingers through it, breaking up part of the image into swirling eddies.

“Catalyst pretty. Consumptionist. You are healthy to perform large picture?” he asked before saying something to Nour.

“He says that your priest has a beautiful Catalyst and is honoured to be shown such a large feat. He wishes to know if it is taxing for your man to do this. He is also Consumptionist and does not wish to put him under too heavy of a burden with his Repercussion for such a performance.” Nour pulled his shirt back on and buttoned it.

“Why is this not terrifying?” Wash whispered, flicking a glance between me and the group on the floor.  I shook my head unsure.

Sanctus whispered something in Lunam’s ear before approaching. Wash pushed back against my side and Lunam wasn’t thrilled with Sanctus getting close, studying his movement.  The redhead was about the same height as Wash, if slimmer in the face, his fingers delicate as he reached out, a couple words dripping from his lips. I caught his name Sanctus, but the rest was lost on me. Wash glanced up to me in question. I shrugged, just as unsure as him as to what to make of it. His fingers slipped from mine and he stepped forward, shaking the man’s hand. “My name is-,” he went to introduce himself before pulling his hand away, startled. He turned to look at me, swallowing. “You told me you had no family, sir.”

“None alive that I am aware of.” I nodded.

“He feels like you.” He drew his hands to his chest, staring at the hand Sanctus had dropped to his side.

“You are a Providentia, Henu?” Nour asked me under a whisper as the group closed the gap with us. Ptolemy sheathed his sword, leaving his grip on the handle.

“I don’t know that word.” I shook my head.

“You are an energy source for Mubkharatan,” he explained hurriedly, flicking an eye to the door where the temple guard had disappeared. There were others like me?

“This man is like me?” I pointed at Sanctus.

“Find.” Lunam put his hand out to shake mine. I studied it warily before taking it.  That electrifying desire that burned in my chest everytime Wash touched me lit like an inferno at Lunam’s lightness. He let go after a polite once up and down. “Yes, Providentia, same.” Interest knotted his brows in thought.

“Your brother can do this too?” I pointed to Sanctus.

Nour snorted. “They aren’t brothers.”

“Shared name.”

“They’re married, Henu. It is typical within Imperium and Angelus to share a common name through family and marriage in a similar fashion to the Nobel Houses,” he told me.

“Wait, I thought he was married to the woman. Ma’at or something like that? You called them a shared leader. She would be the Nobel of the House that he married into if he is ex-Malak military,” I asked, having already forgotten her name.

“No, they are not married,” he emphasized, his people asking questions under the fast interchange.

“Co-leaders, but not married? Concubine? Seems like an odd arrangement for government positioning.” I looked at the woman, clearly older than the rest of the group by at least ten years.

Lunam snarled at the word and I had to step back. Fangs. His eyes, I could have sworn they were green. They were focused pitch black orbs and the temperature in the room was rising. He shifted to put himself protectively in front of the woman. Sanctus moved back, slipping his fingers into Lunam’s hand. A long tirade slurred against sharp teeth. He was military by the tone he issued. 

“I’m not sure I understand?” I glanced between Lunam and Nour. Ptolemy put himself in front of me as Corticibus made to push Lunam behind him.

“She is independent from him as he her. They do not share a bed. He thinks you’ve called her a whore. That would be my fault in teaching him our language. Give me a minute,” Nour explained over the tirade.

Lunam calmed under Nour’s explanation, confusion flitting across his face as he and Corticibus exchanged words until they all came to a conclusion. The woman asked a couple of questions before waving away the answers. Lunam nodded and turned back to me. “I am sorry. I do not speak Hawria good. Imperium is second language. I am started from Engill, Malak you say. Soldier.” He tapped his cheek to indicate the number and barcode.

“Why the fangs?” Ptolemy demanded, his thumb rubbing against the hilt of his blade.

“It’s secondary to the Catalyst, my Lord. Like mine,” Wash cut in. I raised an eyebrow at his explanation. “Most Mubkharatan have something, a spare organ, appendage, something. Um…” he turned to the group to look at them all, shifting his robes to let them see the translucent green wings between his shoulder blades.  The brown-haired man and the woman exchanged a glance while Nour translated what Wash was saying. The brown-haired man lifted his hands to show massive calluses that ran under every crease. The woman pulled back her sleeves to reveal a series of iridescent scales on her underarms. “Those! Yes. They’re different for each person. Usually relates to either how they perform their Catalyst or resolve their Repercussion.”

“And his?” I nodded at Lunam.

“His Repercussion. He’s a Consumptionist,” Nour provided cryptically.

Sanctus mumbled something to Lunam. Corticibus hedged against the comment, rolling up his sleeve. Lunam shook his head, flicking across Wash, Ptolemy and myself with a displeased grimace.

Nour regarded him with a questioning eyebrow before sighing in frustration. “You can either deal with talking to him with the fangs for the next couple hours or else we need somewhere a bit more private than this room. We would rather not terrify your people if they are already scared of mirages.”

“Ptolemy? Send word for Nebra and Seth to see to the teahouse, privately. Don’t need Adom overhearing something through the intercom,” I directed, retaining possession of Wash’s trembling fingers.

“You would trust them in the compound?” Ptolemy whispered uncertainly.

“We will see,” I responded.

“Sir.” He bowed and left to hunt down Seth and Nebra.

“He will be fine to wait for a few minutes?” I asked, eyeing Lunam. Wash tended to start falling apart quickly without a solution on hand almost immediately after one of his mirages.

“He has done no more than get a little heated under the collar. He will tolerate his Repercussion.”

“How is he able to last so long without fixing it?” Wash asked with open curiosity.

“Stubbornness and desperation. He has spent years learning,” Nour explained.

“He is a Consumptionist. Is there not a ready solution I could have a servant provide?” I asked, shrugging my shoulders. Ptolemy returned to the throne room and motioned for us to follow.

“If you want a dried husk for a servant,” Nour whispered under his breath.

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