13

Pirra was too weak to open her eyes, but she knew at once that she was better. She wasn’t burning up and her head didn’t hurt.

Snuggling into her sheepskins, she lay luxuriating in the absence of pain. I’m not dead, she thought hazily. I’m not dead . . .

Later, she woke again. Her mouth was so dry, she could hardly swallow, and she was hollow with hunger. “Userref?” she called. “Silea!”

No answer. Her chamber was dark and cold: The fire in the brazier had been allowed to die. Oh, Silea!

Pirra called again, but the slave girl still didn’t come—and the water jug was empty. Silea was always “forgetting” to refill it because the cistern was down in the cellar, and she was scared of spirits.

“Oh, really!” muttered Pirra, swinging her legs to the floor. Spots swam before her eyes and her blood soughed in her ears. As she waited for it to subside, she saw Userref’s wedjat amulet hanging from the bedpost. He must have left it to reassure her, in case she woke before he got back. Putting it around her neck, Pirra grasped the bedpost and hauled herself to her feet.

More soughing in her ears—and something rattled under her heel. A wave of desolation swept over her. It was Echo’s water bowl.

“Oh, Echo,” she said. “Please come back to me. Please.” But she felt in her heart that Echo was far away.

It took ages to pull on her tunic, leggings, and boots, and as she did, snatches of memory returned. Userref holding her down while she thrashed with fever, and barking orders at Silea with uncharacteristic harshness. “What are you waiting for, girl? She needs water!”

“I c-can’t,” stammered Silea. “If I touch her, I’ll die!”

Userref had sworn at the slave girl in Egyptian—something Pirra had never heard him do—then ordered her to go and fetch wood for the fire.

After she’d gone, he’d dripped ice water into Pirra’s scorching mouth. “Pirra, can you hear me? I have to fetch dittany, it’s the only thing that’ll save you. There’s none in the village, I’ll be gone some time. I’ll be back as soon as I can—”

“Userref, wait!” With feverish strength she’d clutched his wrist. “If I die—”

“You won’t die,” he’d cut in.

“Listen to me, you must hear this! The dagger of Koronos—”

“Pirra, hush—”

“I took it! On Thalakrea. I brought it to Keftiu.”

“That’s the fever talking—”

“It’s true! I swear by the Eye of Heru . . .” Still clutching his wrist, she’d raised herself on one elbow. “If I die, fetch it. Take it somewhere the Crows can’t find it. Guard it with your life, Userref—then destroy it!”

“You won’t die,” he’d repeated fiercely.

“Swear. That’s an order.”

At last it had dawned on him that she was telling the truth. Astonishment and even pride had flitted across his face; then he’d grasped his eye amulet and taken his oath.

Just before she’d slid back into the fever, she’d told him where the dagger was hidden. “Remember,” she’d gasped, “it can only be destroyed by a god . . .”

Beyond the sanctuary walls, the waterfall thundered, but inside, all was deathly still. Wrapping her fox-fur cloak around her, Pirra groped to the door of her chamber.

The shrine was in darkness. As she padded past, she felt the Watchers following her with blind bronze eyes.

Userref’s chamber was also empty and dark. She began to be uneasy. He should be back by now. Had something happened to him?

Silea’s chamber too was dark and cold.

“Oh, you wretch,” muttered Pirra. “If you’re in the guardhouse again . . . Silea? Silea!” That ended in a fit of coughing. She decided that scolding could wait, she needed water.

All the jugs were empty. Cursing Silea, Pirra went back to the slave girl’s chamber and kicked aside the mat that covered the hatch to the cellar, then climbed shakily down the ladder into the freezing, dank, earth-smelling dark.

Water gurgled in the pipe that led from the stream to the cistern. Fumbling for the rope, she hauled up the pail, a feat that left her sweating and floppy. The icy springwater set her teeth on edge, but the strength of Taka Zimi coursed through her. She found a sack of almonds and crammed a handful in her mouth, then some dried figs from a basket. Clutching more figs, she struggled up the ladder.

As an offering, she left one fig in the shrine. Munching the rest, she went out onto the steps.

It was night, and except for the dim snowglow, the courtyard was dark. The only sounds were the muffled thunder of the waterfall and the stream rushing past the walls.

A crow lit onto one of the bull’s horns and cawed at her.

“Go ’way,” she cried. The crow flew off; but her voice sounded reedy, and the stillness seemed deeper than before.

Pirra blinked.

The courtyard was dark. No torches on the walls. No torches—no guards.

A terrifying thought occurred to her. She hurried across the courtyard. The guardhouse door creaked as she pushed it open, and she felt the dead chill of a place that has stood empty for some time.

She ran to the gates. They were barred. “Let me out!” she shouted. Out, out . . . The walls flung back her words. She tried to lift the crossbeam, but it took two strong men to do that: impossible for one fever-weakened girl.

In disbelief she blinked at the mess of footprints near the gates. Whoever had barred them had then climbed over them and pulled up the ladder, leaving her inside.

The crow returned, mocking her with harsh laughter. Still laughing, it flew off into the night.

Slowly, Pirra crossed the courtyard and climbed the steps. She stared at what she’d missed before. Chalked on the door of her chamber was a white handprint: Plague.

Silea and the guards had fled Taka Zimi. They had sealed her inside so that her ghost couldn’t come after them—and left her for dead.