Faris dive deeper, but he slowed his breathing and regained control. At last, Faris spotted the scorpion tail. His finger searched the carving for a button or trigger.
A sundisc cracked into the stone beside his head. Fragments shot about the confined space, the trap broken by the dwarf’s axe. Faris released the Void. The dwarf’s cry blended rage, triumph, and pain. Pushing, pulling, and then twisting, the tail finally clicked. Faris dodged to the right as the axeblade whistled. Sparks lit the doorframe as the axe struck stone.
The door banged against the wall of the pylon, its echoes lost in the rush of the Nile. Faris hauled the panel shut and threw his weight upon it as the dwarf swung his axe again. Once more, the blade clanged against rock. The door closed. Faris ran toward the warren of caves. As he ran, he reached out to Askari. He was there, and Faris let the Shemsu Hor’s strength and calm infuse and buoy him.
The Fullness engendered a sense of peace. The wisdom of ancient souls who had once traversed these same paths guided him, and he heard whispers of their thoughts as he ran. He ducked into the first tunnel and took each arm thereafter as if by memory. He ascended and the first whiffs of freedom swept down. The Fullness soothed his aches and injuries. He sprinted and he knew no one, not a dwarf, not a man, could match his speed. He pushed over the lid of a marble coffin and tumbled into a sunlit crypt.
Chapter Eleven
D avid broke from the claustrophobic grip of the Hanging Church and shivered in the sudden blaze of light. In early evening, the sun remained hot, but cast long shadows from the surrounding buildings.
Feeling guilty about leaving Zahara to stumble about the area without an orientation, David hurried back out of the fortress to the broad steps of St. George in the hopes of a brief talk before his meeting with Tara, a meeting all the more important with Tara’s promise to show him the original engraving and the pope’s warning.
St. George had once been Coptic, but now stood as a seat of Greek Orthodoxy. Expecting to see his girlfriend lounging on the steps, he paused at their base and frowned. Empty. He checked his watch and headed into the nave of the church.
Besides a few bowed heads, none of which shared Zahara’s shiny mane of black tresses, he saw no sign of her. Outside once more, he circled the grounds, finally spotting their small bags near a stone bench. But no Zahara. He fumbled for his phone, annoyed he’d need to suffer the charges associated with an international call and dialed.
Her bag rang three times before he hung up.
“Zahara!” he called. Her name echoed, drawing the attention of a scarf-wearing old woman who lifted her head as if from a doze.
“Have you seen a young, black-haired woman near these bags?” he asked.
She shrugged.
“Do you understand English?”
She shrugged apologetically even after he tried Arabic.
Given Zahara’s interest in antiquities, religion, and archaeology, she could have found any part of the area fascinating and wandered away, but Zahara wasn’t so naive as to leave the bags unattended, was she?
He frowned at them. Aside from toiletries, his contained nothing he’d miss, his passport, money—anything important was in the courier bag slung across his back. But her bags had a cell phone and whatever else she’d packed.
Perhaps its loss might teach her a lesson. He chastised himself for such a patronizing thought and had to admit that he struggled with their relationship. If he didn’t want people to see the age gap, he shouldn’t act like he was her father. He huffed and set off to his second meeting.
As dusk fell, the walls of Coptic Cairo loomed, their shadowy height beyond the reach of streetlights. He stood at the stairs descending to the gate of Babylon, disconcerted over the missing Zahara and his conversation with Shagar. David had translated the stele and knew what it said, but he could not believe in such
A sundisc cracked into the stone beside his head. Fragments shot about the confined space, the trap broken by the dwarf’s axe. Faris released the Void. The dwarf’s cry blended rage, triumph, and pain. Pushing, pulling, and then twisting, the tail finally clicked. Faris dodged to the right as the axeblade whistled. Sparks lit the doorframe as the axe struck stone.
The door banged against the wall of the pylon, its echoes lost in the rush of the Nile. Faris hauled the panel shut and threw his weight upon it as the dwarf swung his axe again. Once more, the blade clanged against rock. The door closed. Faris ran toward the warren of caves. As he ran, he reached out to Askari. He was there, and Faris let the Shemsu Hor’s strength and calm infuse and buoy him.
The Fullness engendered a sense of peace. The wisdom of ancient souls who had once traversed these same paths guided him, and he heard whispers of their thoughts as he ran. He ducked into the first tunnel and took each arm thereafter as if by memory. He ascended and the first whiffs of freedom swept down. The Fullness soothed his aches and injuries. He sprinted and he knew no one, not a dwarf, not a man, could match his speed. He pushed over the lid of a marble coffin and tumbled into a sunlit crypt.
Chapter Eleven
D avid broke from the claustrophobic grip of the Hanging Church and shivered in the sudden blaze of light. In early evening, the sun remained hot, but cast long shadows from the surrounding buildings.
Feeling guilty about leaving Zahara to stumble about the area without an orientation, David hurried back out of the fortress to the broad steps of St. George in the hopes of a brief talk before his meeting with Tara, a meeting all the more important with Tara’s promise to show him the original engraving and the pope’s warning.
St. George had once been Coptic, but now stood as a seat of Greek Orthodoxy. Expecting to see his girlfriend lounging on the steps, he paused at their base and frowned. Empty. He checked his watch and headed into the nave of the church.
Besides a few bowed heads, none of which shared Zahara’s shiny mane of black tresses, he saw no sign of her. Outside once more, he circled the grounds, finally spotting their small bags near a stone bench. But no Zahara. He fumbled for his phone, annoyed he’d need to suffer the charges associated with an international call and dialed.
Her bag rang three times before he hung up.
“Zahara!” he called. Her name echoed, drawing the attention of a scarf-wearing old woman who lifted her head as if from a doze.
“Have you seen a young, black-haired woman near these bags?” he asked.
She shrugged.
“Do you understand English?”
She shrugged apologetically even after he tried Arabic.
Given Zahara’s interest in antiquities, religion, and archaeology, she could have found any part of the area fascinating and wandered away, but Zahara wasn’t so naive as to leave the bags unattended, was she?
He frowned at them. Aside from toiletries, his contained nothing he’d miss, his passport, money—anything important was in the courier bag slung across his back. But her bags had a cell phone and whatever else she’d packed.
Perhaps its loss might teach her a lesson. He chastised himself for such a patronizing thought and had to admit that he struggled with their relationship. If he didn’t want people to see the age gap, he shouldn’t act like he was her father. He huffed and set off to his second meeting.
As dusk fell, the walls of Coptic Cairo loomed, their shadowy height beyond the reach of streetlights. He stood at the stairs descending to the gate of Babylon, disconcerted over the missing Zahara and his conversation with Shagar. David had translated the stele and knew what it said, but he could not believe in such
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