One minute, Set was wolfing down the thick alcoholic porridge the old woman had given him; the next he woke curled on the floor in front of the hearth, banked embers warming his back. Someone had removed the slippers from his feet and had covered him with a scratchy homespun blanket. Expecting the fine bedclothes from his sleeping chambers in the royal palace, Set panicked for a few moments before he remembered his predicament and calmed himself. Then adrenaline flooded his veins once more as he realized that he could see the area around him with near-perfect clarity.
The priest sat up. His sore muscles and head injury protested, and his vision went momentarily blurry, but when it resolved, he drank in the shadowy room: its cracked wattle and daub walls, its hard-packed dirt floor covered with flaking reed mats, its narrow windows with their nearly disintegrated shades, and its black-mouthed hearth heaped with glowing charcoal and powdery ashes. He gave an amazed laugh, vowing never to take his ability to see for granted again.
Set left the blanket crumpled on the floor as he rose. He located his dagger, his slippers, the bundle of jewelry, and the Millennium Rod. As he held the last object, the night before came flooding back; he recalled too vividly the surge of power the Rod had granted him in his rage and how tightly he had clung to it. After a long moment of internal debate, he hid the jewelry and Rod inside an empty, wide-necked jug near the hearth. It wasn't fear that made him abandon the Item, he told himself, but prudence, as he had no idea what the old woman would say if she noticed him carrying around a golden scepter. He donned his slippers, stuffed his sheathed dagger into the waistband of his kilt, and walked to the doorway. Rhythmic scraping noises drifted into the house from the front courtyard.
Set stepped over the threshold and out into the early morning. The sun hadn't yet risen, but its light tinged the horizon a light blue that shaded to navy overhead. The only notable feature of the dusty walled courtyard was an open-air cookfire in one corner. Kisara knelt near the fire, rubbing a cylindrical handstone over wheat grains spread across a flat, oblong quern rock. The friction between the two stones crushed the cereal into flour.
Memories of a little girl in a cage collided with the sight of the woman laboring before him, temporarily robbing Set of breath. Because the moon had been full on the night Set had rescued Kisara, he'd long assumed its silvery light had distorted her natural complexion and hair color. However, Kisara was just as pale as Set remembered: unnaturally so. Her skin showed no sign of burning or tanning, and her hair all but shone in the firelight despite its unwashed, unkempt state. Beholding her, a part of Set understood why people might think the girl cursed: there was something eerie and impossible about her person. The rest of him just found that impossibility fascinating.
Perceiving Set's stare, Kisara glanced up from her task. When her gaze met Set's, she froze. Set remembered the lie he'd told the old woman the previous night and his face heated in response. But then Kisara's embarrassed expression transformed into one of curiosity and hope. She rose from the ground, dropped her millstone, and hurried over to Set.
"Your eyes," she breathed, studying them. "You can...?"
"I can," Set confirmed. He smirked, triumphant, and Kisara actually clapped her hands together like an excited child before remembering herself.
"I am happy for you," she said shyly.
Set couldn't think of a good way to respond to that, so he didn't. "You tied back your hair," he said instead, registering the fact for the first time: some loose strands still hung in Kisara's face, but a strip of cloth from Set's former cape secured the majority of it below the nape of her neck.
The girl reached up to touch her ponytail. "Oh, yes." She blushed for some reason, then informed him, "Berenit should be back soon. She went to fetch some vegetables from the garden around back."
Berenit? Oh, 'Mother,' Set realized. "Then we should fill the water jug and get moving quickly."
Kisara looked taken aback. "Now?"
"Yes, now! Better to go while she's not here to cause a fuss." Noting the girl's troubled frown, Set softened his tone and added, "We'll leave her some gold, of course."
"It isn't that."
"What, then? Are you terribly fond of grinding grain?"
Kisara smiled. Set found himself momentarily distracted by her left incisor tooth, which was slightly crooked, like a small fang. "Nobody likes grinding grain. But Berenit's knees are bad, so she can't do it at all. She's had nothing to eat but beer and onions for days and days."
"You don't want to leave because you're worried about the madwoman?" realized Set.
"She's not mad, she's just old and confused."
"She called you a demon!"
Kisara shrugged (Of course that wouldn't bother her, Set thought). He felt momentarily annoyed at the girl's skewed priorities-how could she hold a random old crone's needs equal to his?-until he remembered Kisara had no idea of the circumstances behind his recent difficulties, and thus could not know what fueled Set's impatience to get back to the capitol. He crossed the yard and sat near the fire, gesturing for Kisara to do the same.
"I never told you how I ended up in the Black River," he said once she'd settled.
"I wasn't sure you wished to speak of it."
Set shook his head. "In truth, I've been too distracted before now. I owe you an explanation, though."
"You don't."
Set held up a hand to halt her protest. "I do," he insisted, "if only because the trouble that displaced me from the palace could affect all of Kemet, you and that old woman included." After taking a moment to gather his thoughts, he began, "An evil man, a thief named Bakura, seeks the Millennium Items, artifacts of great magical power wielded by the Pharaoh and his guardian priests. If the Items fall into Bakura's hands, chaos and ruin will result. I was injured fighting the thief alongside one of my comrades. Luckily I managed to keep the Millennium Rod from him."
"Last night, you pointed your staff at the man who hit me, and he fell down screaming," Kisara recalled.
"All the Items have special abilities. My Millennium Rod can control human minds. I made him think he was in pain." Regret and vicious satisfaction fought for prevalence inside Set.
"But if you command such power, how can a mere thief threaten you? Is he also a sorcerer?"
"Of a sort. In addition to the magic of the Items, there is another kind of magic that lives in everyone. Do you know the different parts of a human soul?"
"Some of them," said Kisara. "Ieb, the heart, shuet, the shadow, ren, the name..."
"Ka, the spirit, and ba, the life-energy," finished Set, "all dwelling within khat, the body. But sometimes a person's ka can move independently of the khat and take on its own form. If a person is good, his or her ka becomes a benevolent guardian. If the person is evil, his or her ka becomes a demon that influences him or her to commit evil deeds. We high priests of the Millennium Items use our ka-spirits to protect the Pharaoh and Kemet. We also extract the evil ka of convicted criminals and seal them in special tablets."
Kisara's eyes widened fractionally. "You take away parts of their souls?"
Set had anticipated this question; he had raised the very same objection upon first learning about the practice. Now he gave her the answer that High Priest Akhnadin had given him: "A ka-spirit isn't necessarily bound to the soul from which it grew-it's more of an offshoot, like the fruit of a tree. Plucking the rotten fruit leaves space for a healthier one to grow."
"I see." Kisara's shoulders relaxed, though she still fiddled anxiously with one of her sleeves. "I didn't mean to imply..."
The priest waved away her apology, continuing, "Somehow, the thief Bakura taught himself to control his ka-spirit the way we priests control ours. His ka is powerful enough to stand against all of us; it's a terrible monster fueled by Bakura's hatred for the Pharaoh."
"I've heard that the young Pharaoh is a kind and honorable person. Why does the thief hate him?" asked Kisara.
"He was too busy cackling about killing us all to give specifics," said Set dryly. However, against his will, he recalled a few of Bakura's words from the initial confrontation in the Pharaoh's throne room:
"You say the Millennium Items bring peace? Justice? Don't make me laugh! The Items were born of evil, and their true purpose is to call evil into the world! Place them on the stone tablet in the village of Kul Elna if you don't believe me!"
"Madman," Set muttered, shaking his head. He returned his attention to Kisara and concluded, "That is why we must get back to the palace as soon as possible. I am one of the Pharaoh's guardians. I must protect Him."
Slowly, Kisara nodded. "I know what it means to need to protect someone," she replied. Set remembered her shielding him bodily from Intef and thought she truly did. But she went on softly, "I know what it means to be lonely, too. Berenit shouldn't have to feel that way."
"If the thief gets what he wants, she'll have more to worry about than loneliness," argued Set. Even as he said it, however, guilt pricked at his conscience, informing him that while he must return to his duties, sneaking away from the old woman like some criminal no longer felt like a valid option. Kisara was proving irritatingly adept at altering his moral sensibilities. He huffed out an annoyed sigh. "Very well. We won't leave secretly, but..."
The front gate opening saved Set from having to come up with a better plan right then. The old woman entered the courtyard carrying a basket of spring onions, cucumbers, and lettuce. Her dark eyes lit up with delight when they landed on Set.
"Pentu, you've woken!" She scurried over to Set with surprising alacrity, grinning wide and nearly toothless. "You fell asleep in front of the fire last night. The sun god Himself couldn't have moved you! It was just like when you were a little boy and didn't want to go to bed in the evenings. I hope you rested well anyhow."
"I did, thank you," said Set, privately marveling at how lucid and spry the woman seemed compared with the previous evening. The old lady turned to address Kisara, scolding,
"Keep up with that grinding, girl, or we'll have no bread for breakfast."
"Yes, Mother Berenit," murmured Kisara agreeably. She walked back over to the quern, knelt, and took up the handstone again.
The woman nodded to herself as Kisara resumed milling the grain, then told Set in a low voice, "I am afraid that your wife is very disappointing. She barely knows anything about housework. Do you know, she says she's never woven cloth before? I've never heard of such a thing! If it weren't for the state of her hands and feet and clothes, I'd say she lived like a princess her whole life, never doing any work or spending any time out in the sun. That would explain her paleness at the very least..."
Set glanced over at Kisara. Possibly the girl was watching them out of the corner of her eye, but from what Set could see of her, she seemed wholly involved in her task. Feeling oddly defensive on her behalf, he explained, "It's the opposite problem; she is an orphan, and she's lived so meagerly that she never had the chance to learn any skills. Please be patient with her."
"It's too bad she's so inept, whatever the reason." Berenit sounded rueful. "I don't mind that you took a camp-follower for a bride, but you should have picked one who could cook and weave at the very least."
Set opened his mouth to defend Kisara's competence again, but then the second sentence registered. Though his father had died before Set was old enough to remember his face, Set had occasionally persuaded other soldiers in his childhood village to speak about their battlefield experiences in an effort to feel closer to the man who had sired him. Set had first heard the phrase "camp-follower" from some of those soldiers. An elderly woman using the same term was nothing short of jarring, or at least, that was the excuse Set would give himself later for his sputtering response:
"That's... Kisara was never a prostitute!"
"Perhaps not; her odd looks wouldn't attract many customers," mused Berenit, "but if she was, you needn't pretend to me, Pentu. There's no shame in a woman doing what she must to get by in this harsh world. As for the rest, it could be worse, I suppose. She works hard, she doesn't talk back or complain, and she doesn't seem to have any diseases, venereal or otherwise..."
"You-I mean, Mother!"
"Oh, don't put on airs, boy! It's a good thing. She's strong and healthy, that one. She even has all her teeth. Hopefully she'll give you many children." The old woman brightened at the prospect. "Now that I think about it, once I train her up, she might make a decent wife for you after all. There's no helping her appearance, but you can't have everything." Satisfied, Berenit patted Set on the cheek. "I take back what I said before-I should have trusted your judgment from the beginning, my wonderful boy! Now stay here for a minute while I get some fresh bandages for that head wound of yours."
The old lady bustled off to the house, leaving Set to stare stupidly at the space she had occupied. The priest only shook himself free of dumbfoundment with conscious effort, and by then, the old woman had returned with a different basket and the three-legged stool from in front of the hearth.
"Pentu, sit here so I can change your bandages." She placed the stool next to Kisara's workspace. Set almost protested for no other reason than his dislike of being ordered about, but he chose the path of least resistance in the end and seated himself as Berenit had instructed. The old woman's fingers were clumsy with arthritis, but they plainly knew their work, unwinding his bandages with well-practiced movements. Set winced as she peeled the last couple layers of fabric from his injury, then sniffed at the exposed area. "No infection yet. Did you tie these, girl?" she asked Kisara
Kisara paused her work to answer, "Yes, Mother Berenit."
"Not too loosely; that's good. Have you had training as a healer?"
"When I was a little girl, a midwife let me work as her apprentice for a short time. She was very old and half blind, so she needed an extra set of hands and eyes."
"Why only a short time? Did the midwife die?" Set asked.
"No." Kisara bit her lip, then admitted, "A baby did. It passed in its sleep the night after I helped deliver it, though it seemed perfectly healthy when it came out of its mother. The family blamed me, so I had to leave town."
To Set's surprise, Berenit snorted disdainfully. "I suppose they thought you had witched its soul away. Well, you look the part, but the midwife should have known better, at least. Sometimes children just die," Berenit's voice went heavy with a well-worn brand of grief, "and only the gods can say why or how."
Struck by her words, neither Set nor Kisara responded to them. Berenit took a fist-sized stone pot from her basket. She removed its lid, scooped out some honey with her index and middle fingers, and applied the sweet-smelling paste to Set's injury. After she had finished, Berenit ordered Kisara, "Bind his wound with the fresh bandages; if I pause to clean my hands in between, the flies will be all over him, even this early."
Kisara jumped to her feet and obeyed, retrieving clean strips of old linen from the basket and wrapping them around Set's head. Had it truly only been a day since she'd last done this for him? Set felt as though weeks had passed instead, though he remembered Kisara's brisk but gentle touches vividly enough. Frowning, he glanced away from Kisara in time to see Berenit raise her fingers to her mouth and suck the residual honey from them. She cackled, musing to no one in particular,
"Blood and honey-that's the taste of life if I've ever sampled it. Finish the flour after you get done with those bandages, girl. I'll bring out the rest of the baking things."
"Yes, Mother Berenit."
The old woman stumped off back to the house. By the time Kisara secured the last of Set's bandages, the sun had crested over the horizon, outshining the stars that had dusted the early morning sky. She finished grinding the wheat as Berenit returned from the house with two conical earthenware molds, a pad of leather, and chipped mixing bowl partially filled with salted water, spices, and a bit of leavening. Berenit carefully set the molds in the fire, one inside of the other, to warm. Under her instruction Kisara transferred the flour into the bowl and hand-mixed the contents into dough.
"Knead it firmly, don't play with it," said the old woman. For the first time, Kisara blushed at her scolding; Set noticed her glance his way as if worried that he'd heard. He kept his eyes on the fire and obligingly pretended to be lost in thought.
After a few minutes, the old woman judged Kisara's work adequate. Protecting her fingers with the leather pad, Berenit removed the molds from the flames and set the pointed end of the inner mold into a hole in the ground near the cookfire. Kisara poured the dough into it, then Berenit placed the second mold upside-down atop the first. Kisara used a crude stone hand shovel to heap some of the fire's coals around the molds so the bread would cook evenly. Set saw the girl burn herself a couple times in the process, but her hands were so scarred and callused from a lifetime of hardship that she barely flinched.
They ate breakfast inside the house, seated in a loose triangle on the floor. The meal itself was meager, consisting only of bread, vegetables, and some more of the beer-porridge, but Set ate with as much fervor and gratitude as he ever had. He was starving; the dates and porridge from the previous day had inadequately fueled his recovering body.
"Young men and their appetites!" clucked Berenit as he reached for another piece of cucumber. Her patronizing tone might have annoyed Set if she hadn't smiled so broadly as she spoke. Kisara grinned as well, though she ducked her head to conceal it.
After their meal, Berenit sent Kisara to one of the nearby canals in order to wash the mixing bowl and the other dishes they'd used. Set tried to follow her, hoping to use the time to formulate a plan for leaving, but the old lady stopped him.
"You should rest, Pentu," she fussed.
"I'm fine," Set snapped, then, effortfully modulating his impatient tone, he added, "thanks to you. I feel much better."
"Truly?" The old woman looked him up and down, assessing his general well-being. With a cunning gleam in her eye, she smiled and said, "In that case..."
Which was how Set soon found himself hip-deep in another section of the canal, a fishing net clutched in both his hands. He spent the first hour there cursing his luck and regretting that he hadn't dragged Kisara away from Berenit's house when he'd had the chance. He regretted, too, that he hadn't been able to think of a better protest than "Shouldn't I avoid getting my bandages wet?" when the old woman had suggested he catch some fish for them. Berenit had simply chuckled in response and advised Set not to put his head under the water.
Conniving old hag, Set groused, trying and failing yet again to capture a few small fish darting through the current. It had been ages since he'd last done this; certainly his childhood village had boasted its share of fishermen, but because its chief economy had consisted of horse husbandry and training, Set had grown up far handier with a saddle than a net. Noticing a flash of silver beneath the water, he lunged for it, but the foot on which he'd put most of his weight slipped in the silty river-mud; Set barely caught himself in time to avoid plunging face-first into the canal. The water around the priest churned as he stumbled and righted himself, swearing.
A clear, unabashed laugh rang out behind Set. He turned to find a girl about his age watching him from the top of the slope leading down to the canal. She carried a basket of washing on one hip and wore a simple linen wrap dress-obviously a farmer's daughter amused at his ineptitude. Set scowled at her.
"What an expression!" laughed the girl. She carefully made her way down the slope and paused at the water's edge, grinning out at Set. "If looks could kill, I'd be halfway to the Duat by now. Who are you, stranger?"
"No one you need concern yourself with," said Set. "You may go now."
"Certainly I may! I may also stay, as you are not my father to command me." She stuck her nose in the air.
"...Fine." Set turned away from her, holding the cast-net back at the ready. About five minutes and two failed attempts later, the farm girl spoke up behind him again.
"You're very bad at that."
"I am unavoidably aware," the priest ground out. He'd hoped the girl would get watching him bored and leave, but clearly the gods weren't willing to grant him even that small boon today. "These fish are so small, they swim right through the net."
"I bet I could catch some with it, easy."
Set snorted.
"You doubt I could?"
"You live around here?" Set asked her.
"No, I'm actually a princess in the Pharaoh's court," replied the girl sarcastically. "I just love taking leisurely strolls through backwater farmlands; they're far more refreshing than the palace gardens."
Set couldn't hold back a genuine snicker at that. "Funny-I'm a high priest at court."
"I'll bet. You're snooty enough. Anyway, yes, I live around here."
"Then I do in fact believe you could catch some fish with this. Doubtless you've had more practice than me."
"I'll show you the trick to it if you tell me your name."
"High Priest Set of the Millennium Rod."
"Ha! I meant your real name," said the girl.
"Yours first."
"Redji, Hakab's daughter."
"Pentu," said Set.
"And whose son are you?"
Set wordlessly held the net out to her. Rolling her eyes, Redji kicked off her sandals, set down her clothes basket, and waded into the canal to take it from him.
"Not only are you trying to pounce on the fish with the net instead of throwing it, you're aiming for where the fish are when you first see them. You need to aim for where they're headed if you want to catch any," she explained. "Watch."
They waited a minute for the fish to forget they'd heard movement in their part of the canal. When a group of four immature tigerfish swam past, Redji threw the net some distance in front of them. By the time the net hit the water and its weighted edges sank towards the bottom, the fish were right beneath it. Redji gathered the net like a sack in her hands to prevent them from escaping, then pulled the whole bundle ashore.
"Impressive," Set allowed, following her out of the water.
Redji wrinkled her nose as she inspected her catch. "Tigerfish are good eating, but they're also pretty bony; you won't get much meat off these. The most efficient way to catch fish is to pull a drag-net behind a boat in one of the deeper parts of the river." She flashed Set a confident smile. "Maybe I could show you the best spots for it around here, since you're new to the area."
It suddenly occurred to Set that the water had rendered Redji's white dress more or less transparent, and that she was regarding him with something more than neighborly friendliness and curiosity. The second realization threw him, not because he'd never been propositioned before, but because those propositions had only come after he'd assumed his position at court. Though Set hardly boasted the best pedigree, his status and his closeness to the Pharaoh were enough for many women in the palace. Those women had solicited High Priest Set, however-never just plain Set. For that reason more than any other, Redji's offer tempted him, though her objective beauty didn't hurt either.
"I could be a thief or a murderer," he couldn't help but point out to her.
"Not a very competent one, with a head wound like that. And you're no good at catching things, either. I'll take my chances," the girl countered.
"I'm flattered," Set told her truthfully after a long moment of hesitation, "but I should go now. Berenit is expecting me."
"Berenit? You're staying with that addled old biddy?"
"The same. She thinks I'm her son, but our blood-ties are more distant than that." Far more distant. "I've only stopped in to check on her on my way to the capitol."
"You're traveling to the city? What for?" asked Redji.
Set was a bit surprised at how little his refusal had dampened the girl's curiosity. He'd stripped down to his loin cloth to wade in the canal; now he retrieved his kilt and dagger from the stone on which he'd laid them.
"I'm looking for work as a scribe," he lied.
Redji's eyes lit up. "I knew you were smarter than the idiot boys around here! A scribe, really? So you can read and write and do sums and all that?"
"That is the definition of a scribe, yes."
"You know, I bet my papa would hire you. He needs help calculating the crop yields for our next harvest."
"Doesn't he have any sons to help him with that? Or you?"
"We both wish. I'm no good at sums and I don't have any brothers. Papa's been trying to train my cousin so he can take over the farm one day, but Khui's useless. Just yesterday Papa sent him to the next village over to buy some seed, but the idiot spent all the money Papa gave him on something else-probably gambling or women. He even had the gall to tell Papa that witches took it from him and his drinking buddies!"
Halfway through donning and belting his shendyt, Set froze. "...What?"
"I know; what do witches need with money? He's so stupid."
"I meant, what did you say your cousin's name was?"
"Khui," said Redji disdainfully. "Why, does he owe you something? Good luck getting it back."
Forboding spread through Set like a drop of ink through water. He finished tying off the belt of his kilt, slipped his dagger into the band, and set off for Berenit's property.
"Uh, you left your fishing net! And your fish!" Redji called after him.
"Keep them," Set told her.
His pride forbid him from running back to the old woman's home like a frightened rabbit, but he walked as fast as he could and commenced calling for Kisara almost before he'd reached the front gate. No reply came. Set searched the yard and house, then circled around to the vegetable plot. He found Berenit hunched over weeding some onions.
"Where is Kisara?" Set demanded.
"I sent her to fetch drinking water from the well."
"What well?"
"Silly boy! You know the well near Hakab's land."
Hakab...that's Redji's father; Khui's uncle. Too impatient to humor her, Set snapped out, "Which way?"
Something in his tone forestalled any questions the old woman might have wanted to ask. She pointed. "Past the sycamore copse."
Set could see the trees in question about a half-mile down the marshy fields behind Berenit's house. This time, he ran towards his destination. Berenit shouted after him, cautioning Set of his wound, and soon enough the priest's head throbbed in time with the rapid beating of his heart. His lungs heaved and burned as well; apparently, Set wasn't as recovered from the fight with Bakura as he'd hoped. He ignored his discomfort in favor of seeking out the well. If it was anything like the few around his village, it would be situated only slightly back from the footpath.
The ink of dread darkening the waters of his mind further, he passed the group of sycamore trees and kept going. Wild marsh gave way to cultivated fields bordered by irrigation channels. Set turned off onto the first path that looked like it might lead somewhere beyond them. His instincts proved correct; he had only to travel a little ways before he came upon a bare dirt clearing studded with boulders around the perimeter. A simple hole in the ground at the center marked the well. Kisara knelt beside it, lowering a waterskin into its depths with a long rope. She looked up when she heard Set approach.
"Lord Set?"
Set was breathing too hard to reply. She's alone-thank all the gods! Relief flooded him. He bent over, bracing his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. Kisara began to haul up the full waterskin as quickly as she could, concern writ large across her face.
"What's wrong? Is it Berenit?" she fretted.
Set shook his head, waving a hand to indicate that all was well despite appearances. He straightened up after a few moments and flashed Kisara a rueful smirk, but, focusing on something behind him, the girl's eyes went wide and panicked. She dropped the waterskin, opening her mouth to warn him.
Pure instinct made Set lean forward so that the rock aimed at the back of his head struck between his shoulderblades instead. One of the stone's sharp edges bit into Set's bare flesh, drawing blood. The sheer force of it sent Set sprawling. He caught sight of his assailant as he hit the ground: a man who Set did not recognize, but who he guessed was probably Khui, stood above him, the rock clenched in his hand. Set had been so focused on Kisara he hadn't even thought to check behind the boulders for anyone lying in wait.
And me without the Rod. Damn me for a fool!
Across the clearing, Kisara screamed. Her long, heartbroken cry told Set she didn't realize that Khui had failed to bash in his skull. Set tried to move, but the blow and his subsequent fall had temporarily stunned him. Khui closed in, lifting the rock to strike Set again...
The sky turned black so suddenly that Set assumed he was losing consciousness. Then a wave of power swept over him. Raw magic, a veritable flood of spirit-energy, suffused the air, almost physically palpable in its strength. It overwhelmed Set; even Khui froze in place, choked by it. A burst of star-blue light leapt into the air above the well. Lightning, thought Set, until it resolved into a massive shape.
The white dragon of his youth was every bit as beautiful and terrible as Set remembered, its scales paler than alabaster, its eyes bluer than lapis lazuli. Its bellow shook the very ground beneath the priest, and all at once, Set was thirteen years old again, surrounded by fear and flames, staring disbelievingly as a mighty destroyer-god descended from the heavens to answer his prayer for vengeance, for justice. Presently the white dragon focused on Khui, who dropped the stone, turned, and ran. Pale light built in the dragon's jaws, so bright that Set had to cover his eyes and turn away; he felt the plasma heat of its breath pass over him with a deafening roar. The ground quaked when the burst of light found its target, chunks of super-heated earth spraying up into the air, then raining down around Set.
The priest rose to his hands and knees as the dragon shrieked again. He looked around wildly for Kisara and, finding her, caught his breath: light illuminated her body as if from within, her pale skin and unbound hair shining like moonbeams. Her eyes, however, glowed the same searing blue as the dragon's. She seemed insensate, shock and despair etching her tear-streaked countenance. Above, the white dragon sent another burst of light from its mouth, straight up into the sky.
"Kisara!" cried Set. "Kisara!"
She could not hear him across the clearing. Set half-ran, half-limped around the well. He fell to his knees at her side and shook her by the shoulders.
"Kisara!" he implored.
She twitched, then turned all at once to face him. "Lord Set?" she gasped. Her voice had a strange echoing quality to it, as when Mahaad cast his most complex spells or when Isis spoke true prophecy. "You're alive...!"
"You must dismiss the dragon!" Set urged her, drawing them both to their feet. Confused, she glanced up, then recoiled at the sight of the winged beast wheeling overhead, searching for a target.
"What-what is that?"
"That is your ka-spirit!" Set laughed a little crazily; he couldn't help it. She didn't know? All this power, and she never knew?
"A monster..."
"No! That is the god who saved my life when the slavers attacked my village. You must have sent it to me without realizing then. But you can control it; it's a part of you."
"I don't know how to make it go away," she said. Her face was blank with shock and shivers racked her body. Acting on instinct, Set released Kisara's shoulders but drew her close, wrapping his arms around her comfortingly.
"Calm yourself and focus inward. Let go of your sadness and master your fear. All is well," he told her.
"All is well," repeated Kisara. Her forehead pressed against his collarbone, she embraced him in return-lightly, as though she were afraid to touch him. "All is well; all is well; all is well..."
Set deepened and evened his breathing. She mimicked him. As her tremors died down, so too did the dragon's cries. Set lifted his eyes upward to observe the white god. It wheeled through the air, banking, dipping, and stretching its mighty wings. Then, as the clouds disintegrated and the sun reappeared overhead, it slowly vanished like a star in the morning sky.
The light shining from Kisara faded around the same time. She slumped, unconscious, in Set's arms. Though it made his back twinge painfully where Khui had struck him, Set scooped her up and carried her away from the well as quickly as he could walk. Curious villagers would descend on the area soon, and he had no desire to be present when they arrived.