Paradise Lost
Prologue—Red Dawn
"Behind every wizard of the eighth rank were half a dozen seventh rank wizards
trying to bump him off, and senior wizards had to develop an inquiring attitude
to, for example, scorpions in their bed. An ancient proverb summed it up:
When a wizard is tired of looking for broken glass in his dinner, he is tired
of life."
--Terry Pratchett, The Light Fantastic
August 1, 2012. Daybreak, Cairo time.
El-Kharga, Egypt
At the precise moment that the first sliver of morning sun emerged from beneath
the eastern dunes, the golden doors of the Great Hall flung open. The dramatic
entrance to come was heralded by the minor-key blare of trumpets, the beat
of bass drums, and the tinkling of reed flutes.
All of the witches and wizards present rose to their feet and cheered as
if with one voice. The sound caused the enchanted sand brick walls of the
imposing Temple of the Lost to vibrate and hum. Representatives in the throng
included sorcerers from every nation, people, and tribe on Earth. Between
them they spoke all languages and none at all.
Yet as different as they all looked, their attire did not vary much. They
were dressed up in a curious uniform that consisted of stiff crackling scarlet
robes that tended to run red rivulets down their limbs whenever the skin
the fabric came in contact with was warmed to a normal temperature.
Fortunately for both garments and wearers, all of the sorcerers present had
the equivalent of frozen nitrogen running through their veins. Breaking into
a sweat would have been a sign of marked weakness… and in the Cabalistica,
weakness was despised. So was warmth. So the red folds were usually safe
from bleeding.
Although the temperature of the desert morning outside was already nearing
one hundred degrees, there was no need for even a single Cooling Charm inside
the vast, cavernous structure where the 13th Annual Conference was being
held. There was a gusty chill in the air that even the ten standards flying
high overhead recognized and paid homage to by flapping incessantly.
But none of the witches or wizards below were looking upwards. Their collective
attentions were focused upon the open entrance, cheering, using their enhanced
sense of hearing to listen until they heard the pitter-patter of footsteps…
When the first muzzled Chimaera came into sight with its rider, the cheering
turned into an eardrum-splitting roar that rose in pitch as each new dignitary
entered the hall… thirty-three in all.
The significance was intended to be ironic. There were thirty-three conspirators
involved in the devious Muggle plot to murder the wizard statesman Gaius
Julius Caesar. Or so every wizarding child learned in their History of Magic
courses at Durmstrang, the Academy, and even at Hogwarts.
It was only fitting that there would be thirty-three involved in the devious
wizarding plot to subdue the Muggle world… and to expunge all traces of their
filthy useless blood from the magical population worldwide. Thirty-three
of the living dead, men and women whose hearts had turned into not into stone,
but into a stinking, rotten pulpy mass that festered within their chests
and pumped the poison of hate throughout their entire bodies… men and women
whose lips had sipped from the chalices of demons, whose eyes had seen the
forbidden, and whose lips had uttered the taboo.
The thirty-three of the exclusive group that the Cabalistica took its name
from were now the de facto heart and soul for organized Dark Arts activity
worldwide. Every registered member of the Cabalistica gave this diabolical
coven all the credit for its first rise in well over a decade…
The Cabal.
Even the Cabal itself was stratified. Selected from among the thirty-three
were the Seven Last Incarnations of the Dark One… four women and three men.
They were the last to enter, riding on Hebridean dragonlets whose wings had
been clipped and whose fire had been stolen away by Dark Magic.
Li Ching for the Hei-Dao, First Incarnation of T’ien Ti.
Baba Tila for the Children of the Widow, Seventh Incarnation of Baba Yaga.
Roger Apemendek for the Order of the Chalybian, Fifth Incarnation of Grindelwald.
Sebastian Borgin for the Death Eaters, First Incarnation of Voldemort, Dark
Lord of Lords.
Zyanya Xochimilco for the Priesthood of the Flowery Death, Seventeenth Incarnation
of Huitzipochtli.
Sheetal Shetty for the Kali Mandir, Second Incarnation of Vlad, Count Dracula.
Last to enter was the newly installed Grand Inquisitor of the Cabal, also
Worthy Matron of the Great Society and Third Orisha of Asili… Asha Djeli
Babatunde. Fifth Incarnation of Ibadiran.
Asha Babatunde was said to be the most wicked she-creature of human origin
to have walked the earth in nearly five hundred years. In the three years
since she had been appointed to the Cabal, Asha had been the mastermind behind
the assassination of ten wizarding heads of state, including Britain’s Lucy
Goosey in her office at the Ministry of Magic branch office in Bath and Brazil’s
Jorge Jobim while visiting relatives outside of Salvador. Her wand was so
filled with the lost souls of her victims that it was said that if a Priori
Incantatem was performed on it, there would be enough virtual ghosts popping
out of it to populate the British wizarding town of Hogsmeade several times
over.
It was rumored in these latter days that Asha had learned the secret of cheating
death by calling Voldemort up from the grave and into the midst of a pentagram
so powerful that he couldn’t help but be compelled to tell her all she wanted
to know about immortality. Others swore she’d spoken with many other personages
of note in this fashion, and on some occasions, done more than speak. All
of those who had gone before had finally, finally succumbed to the inevitable…
but if anyone could finally succeed in discovering the secret to eternal
life, most believed Asha could.
There were even rumors that she was the incarnation of Inanna.
Long before Nostradamus’ prophecies or any Muggle holy books had ever been
penned, so long ago that it was in the ancient time before any books had
been written, there was a dabbler in the magical arts by the name of Semiramis
who lived in the Fertile Crescent. Semiramis was one of the first witches
ever, if not the very first… after she became a full-fledged witch, she took
the name of Inanna for herself. Because of her good works, the people of
that long-ago time loved her and sainted her. After her death she was worshipped
above all other gods and goddesses in the Sumerian pantheon. Even though
her lovers were legion, the strength of her Craft came from the fact that
she was not subdued by any man.
In Egypt, she became the famed Isis, wife to Osiris, mother and wife to Horus.
In Greece she was Artemis of the Mysteries, goddess of the moon and of the
hunt. In Rome, she was Diana of Ephesus.
In Christendom of the Middle Ages, she inspired the cult of the Madonna.
Wizards and witches, although not religious at all, kept the legend of Inanna
alive in their histories. Those who happened to be awake in their respective
training schools’ History of Magic courses always remembered the following
myth:
There are those who say that the Goddess is not dead. As the immortal mother
of magic she is alive in the veins of every witch and wizard on the planet
even to this very day. And there are those who say that when her children
are threatened unto death and they must make their final stand, a new Inanna
will walk the earth and become the salvation of all that is magical, all
that is mystical, all that is enchanted.
It was quite obvious to everyone present that day that either Asha or another
of the Cabal’s women was indeed this Inanna who was to come. For didn’t the
relentless Muggle encroachment upon the wizarding world in modern times threaten
magic’s very existence? Wouldn’t the Goddess come again as an avenging dark
angel in the night, striking down all those who dared to harm her children
with the sword of her mouth?
Asha looked very much like that Dark Angel on this morning, riding on a triple-headed
dark green hoglike beast with fangs dripping over saliva and steam coming
out of its nostrils, a creature obviously spliced by Dark Magic. Like the
others, she was dressed in robes of scarlet with a deep wine-purple tunic
trimmed with cloth-of-gold draped over it. Her skin was brown as polished
mahogany, and masses of smooth dark hair curled about her face like tendrils
of cornsilk.
A closer look revealed that her eyes were like twin scarabs, glittering meanly
in a setting as white as Dieppe ivories and fringed with spiky lashes. There
was not a trace of warmth or compassion in those eyes.
They said she had no children. It was common knowledge that she ruled over
her husband, the British Minister of Magic, as if he were a pet hamster of
hers… even though she had not shown her face in the British isles for over
three years. It was also rumored long ago that her father was of Muggle descent,
although the talk stopped when those who were responsible for spreading the
gossip died very suddenly in their sleep. All in the same night.
She was last to reach the platform. The beast lowered itself to accommodate
her, and several Cabalistica lay members scrambled to offer their backs so
that their beloved Grand Inquisitor would not have to place her precious
feet on the cold sand-stones that made up the floor of the palace. Hoisted
on the shoulders of these men, she ascended the stairs and then walked the
short distance to the ceremonial Inquisition Seat.
Once she sat, the applause stopped. Sebastian Borgin, who was presiding,
held up his hand, then brought it down in a swift chopping motion. This halted
the last blasts of fanfare… everyone took their seats.
Sebastian was a tall, lanky man with long, light brown hair that always looked
like it wanted a good washing. There was a perpetual lean and hungry look
in his watery blue red-rimmed eyes. He was a man of few detrimental personal
habits and even fewer weaknesses.
It was generally acknowledged that Sebastian was the strong arm of the Cabal
and of the Incarnated Seven… he was known to be utterly ruthless in using
murder and mayhem to get his point across to both the hated Mudbloods and
their infernal Muggle-loving allies. Like every other Cabalistica member,
he had no qualms about killing children… but unlike most others, he enjoyed
torture and was fast turning it into an art form that he took erotic pleasure
from. Sebastian Borgin was a sadist and a backstabber, a murderer and a brutal
rapist, a wizard who was utterly warped and twisted according to every standard
of normalcy and decency that the mainsteam wizarding world held.
He was also the Cabalistica’s idea of a true Renaissance man.
"Brethren of the truth," said Sebastian grandly, standing up to give the
occasion, "it is both a privilege and an honor to greet you most cordially
on this glorious day. Join me as we stand in the singing of our Anthem."
All of the wizards and witches present stood gleefully again, clasping their
hands over their hearts and looking straight at the platform. Compliance
was checked by black-robed henchmen… the former Dementors of Azkaban. Anyone
who did not comply with any request given from the dais would immediately
be Kissed by these guards.
Non-compliance was rare, however. The Cabalistica delegations were appointed
by their home organizations especially for their fervor in persecuting the
Muggle-born and the Muggle-loving vermin who took up for them.
So to a man, those present sang the lyrics to the Anthem three times over
with gusto. In perfect seventeen-part harmony, which everyone knows was invented
by wizards and witches anyway…
O Cabal, grand Cabal, we thank thee for the night
With strength of will we shall purge every deed of the light
We shall crush our enemies with the might of the dark
Upon the brow of the pure we shall leave our mark
O Cabal! Grand Cabal, we pledge our lives to thee
Our wands, our all, and nothing less
And Cabal if we should ever fail to please thee
Then our failure should herald our death…
O Cabal, if we should ever fail to please thee
Then our failure shall herald our death!
Let it be…
Let it be…
Let it be!
The singing of the anthem was punctuated by another burst of applause, perhaps
the most frenzied of all. One young Indian witch became so frenzied that
she burst out into dancing in the aisles, then fell to the ground in something
that greatly resembled an epileptic seizure. The nearest Dementor bent over
her, and when it rose again, the supine form of the young witch was absolutely
still. A body cannot live without its soul, and hers no longer resided there.
Of all present, only Asha and her strong arm did not sing. She sat upon her
throne and gazed at the spectacle with her usual mask-like gaze, giving no
clue to her innermost thoughts.
Sebastian watched her for a few moments when the singing first began. Then
leaned over and said, "What next?" There was never any set agenda for the
Conferences if the Grand Inquisitor did not approve it… and this time she
had not.
"You may proceed as planned. Only do not take the vote on the question of
the pigeon hunt…"
"What?!" snarled Sebastian. "Damn it, Asha, I am tired of this! She would
have been dead long before now if it hadn’t been for your interference…"
"I did not interfere," replied the Grand Inquisitor. "There is a vast difference
between interference and tabling the issue, which is my right as head of
the Cabal."
"You have tabled the fucking issue for the past eight conventions… almost
two years! And the longer we wait, the stronger the pigeon grows, and the
closer to the truth. Besides, the Accursed One…"
"The Accursed One knows nothing of her whereabouts," Asha replied. "Word
has it that he has quite a few other things to be concerned with. What with
planning his wedding and putting out all the fires that we’ve started in
Britain, he is far too busy to spare a second’s thought on her…"
"Until she flies back over the ocean and back to them… back to him… once
she puts what she’s seen in the New World together with what is happening
there, it could be the doxy that bites a hole in our arses!"
Asha studied Sebastian’s rat-like face.
"Why would she ever go back? No, Sebastian, our informants say that she will
never live as a witch again. Despite my predecessor’s shortcomings, when
Hecate sat in this seat she orchestrated the downfall of that infernal Covenant
quite nicely. She may have failed in her final orders to bring the pigeon
back to face our version of… shall I say, justice… but Hecate and her team
did quite nicely in all other points."
"She would have done nicely if they were all dead," snapped Sebastian. "Damned
snake couldn’t even dispose with the cheap talentless Enthraller we used
as the Trojan horse… instead, her own marionette ended up turning on her
and killing her daughter."
"Good riddance," said Asha with a wave of her hand. "That daughter of Hecate’s
was a nuisance anyway… exactly why I don’t have children myself. If that
girl had left well enough alone instead of disobeying orders to go on a personal
vendetta, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now."
"We wouldn’t be having this conversation now if you’d just let me take the
bloody vote!" said Sebastian, finishing his tirade up with a near-silent
scream.
But now the anthem was over, and Sebastian sat back up. It was time to continue
with the proceedings.
First, there was about an hour or so of bragging, during which the silent
spread of the Cabalistica’s mission all over the world over the past three
years was lauded.
"The mistake that our predecessors made in various regions of the world,"
said the Canadian Chalybian Roger Apemendek, "was in announcing their presence
with fanfare much like that which proceeded their entrance. Recall, if you
will, the proliferation of the Dark Mark over Europe during the recent revolution.
And yes, instituting such measures to form a reign of terror is all well
and good, in its place.
"But the esteemed Order of the Chalybian teaches that if you control the
thoughts of the wizard of witch, they become your slave. You will not need
to tell them to use the back door… they will go to it automatically. In fact,
if there is no back door, they will cut one for their benefit. The skillful
breaking of an individual mind is an art form only mastered by a few Chalybian
adepts… but dearly beloved brethren, you must all be commended for following
the directives of the Cabal to break the individual mind of the masses."
Applause. "The most commendable thing in all of this is the fact that we
have come so far in such a short time… and yet, our increased worldwide influence
has barely left a single mark.
"After the failure of the Beta Revolution," Roger continued, referring to
the term Dark adepts used for the Second Voldemort War, "a bill was introduced
to the International Confederation of Wizards proposing that all Muggle-born
witches and wizards be required to wear some sort of badge of identification.
It was blasted to bits and never made it out of committee. A subsequent AWP
poll at the turn of the millennium by the Confeds showed that seven-eighths
of witches and wizards worldwide were against restricting the issuance of
the Muggle visa, the MagiCard, and registering the Muggle-born along with
their immediate families.
"After the Victoria Jenkins debacle of 2010, when evidence of the wizarding
world was actually published in what the Muggles deem one of their legitimate
publications--the Guardian, if such feral animals can actually be said to
produce anything at all that is legitimate--there ensued a frenzied witch-hunt
the like of which we have not seen in over four hundred years. Attitudes
changed overnight. Although Ms. Jenkins and her publication’s carelessness
were in direct violation of the 1692 International Compact, no legal action
was taken by either the Confederation or the British Ministry of Magic.
"As you all know… the public was…" here Roger broke into a dry laugh, "outraged."
The entire Great Hall filled with diabolical laughter. As if on cue, a chorus
of "muwhahahahahas" bounced from the walls of the echoing sandstone palace.
Some even held their sides, but refrained from rolling down the aisles with
their mirth in light of what had happened to the unfortunate Indian acolyte
during the anthem.
Only the Dementors stood silently at attention.
Roger held up a hand for silence, and he was immediately obeyed. "The end
of the post-revolution so-called ‘prosperity’ ended and the rise of those
Muggle-aping international businesses was halted… perhaps because of the
Jenkins debacle, perhaps not. At any rate, the fact that the two events coincided
could only benefit our cause immensely… and benefit it, it did. People blamed
the bad times on the Mugglization of the wizarding world.
"Our ranks have swelled in all of our affiliate organizations. In many countries
that are ultra-sympathetic to our cause, such as Great Britain, Brazil, South
Africa, and India, more than two-thirds of the population are thought to
be sympathetic towards anti-Muggle causes. Rioting and boycotting of Mudblood-owned
businesses has begun, along with the harassment and battering of the same
and their defenders. The stage, brethren, is being set quite nicely for what
we will propose this autumn… the Ultimate Solution.
"The Confederation will convene next month on the first of September. It
is then that we will propose this Ultimate Solution… and we of the Cabal
plan to ensure that our will shall prevail during the international proceedings.
At that time, we will unveil the details that the Confeds will not know to
you, our brethren.
"So continue to stoke the fires of discontent in your own home villages and
towns, knowing that misplaced ideals of liberty, equality, and brotherhood
do not fill an empty stomach or dispel fear. The so-called ‘good’ often fall
by the wayside when there is a more convenient path to follow. In this, the
past Grand Inquisitor Hecate Quirke was correct when she said ‘Only the wicked
are righteous.’ It is within the nature of sorcery to be self-serving and
to pursue personal pleasure… we are not the crowd of self-denial and foolish
sacrifice, and thank Mephistopheles for it. We are the wise ones who live
in the moment and force all others to do the same. We know that there is
no good or evil, only power and those who wish to pursue it. In this knowledge
we have become godlike, and indeed, recent centuries have proven that we
and we alone are fit to rule our world!"
More enthusiastic applause… but it stopped the second that Sebastian Borgin
rose to his feet.
Roger’s mouth clenched shut at this breach of protocol. Asha’s glittering
scarab eyes were locked upon Sebastian’s treacherous form.
"Sebastian, what on earth is the meaning of this insubordination?" Asha snapped
in a voice that brooked no refusal.
Sebastian then did the unthinkable.
He turned his back on the Grand Inquisitor of the Cabalistica.
It was Pandemonium in more ways than one. The crowd screamed and gnashed
their teeth at the unthinkable insult. The Dementors seemed torn between
remaining in place as crowd control or rushing to the dais to punish Sebastian
for his sin.
And the red dye of the robes sent off an all-too familiar stench, pungent
and acrid in its intensity, as it liquefied and ran down the hands and feet
of the crowd.
Rivulets of blood.
Asha herself stood to control the frenzied crowd.
"Silence, you fools! Let my strong arm speak."
It took a few moments, but soon there was silence. Once he had everyone’s
attention, albeit grudgingly, Sebastian Borgin began. His voice was grating
and harsh, with phlegmy undertones.
"What Roger is carefully skirting is the fact that all of our efforts will
be vain if history repeats itself."
Sebastian paced in front of the Inquisition seat, avoiding Asha’s beetling
gaze. Thousands of varicolored irises followed him back and forth, back and
forth as he walked.
"Fourteen years ago, it looked as if the Beta Revolution would be the successful
start of a new regime. But in one night, three children," the last was uttered
in a high-pitched tone that was close to a screech, "three little brats were
able not just to kill the First Grand Inquisitor, that Dark Lord of Lords,
not just able to take prisoner the elite Lightning Guard, but they put all
of Tartarus in stasis… setting us back eleven years!" There was that high-pitched
tone again. "Names that we curse… names that we do not speak… the Accursed
One… the Weasel… and the pigeon." He punctuated each code name with an eloquent
spray of spittle, then discharged the entire wad upon the dais at the end.
"Tartarus was in stasis until three springs ago, when our Gatekeeper in Bermuda
alerted us to stirrings from the depths of its portal… just before he disappeared.
The restoration of our base there, along with the harnessing of its resources,
is directly responsible for our rise as of late. Let us not put on airs,"
he glared at Roger, "that are groundless.
"It ought to nag each and every member here that the three brats responsible
for our setbacks of a decade and more were not put out of their misery while
they were weak and young, but were allowed to grow to adulthood and to reach
near-legendary status among the unenlightened. Every one sworn to allegiance
to this Cabal ought to hang their heads in shame for allowing this grave
misfortune to come to pass."
His words dropped into momentary silence. In all that Great Hall, there was
not a single sound.
"Some of you may say that this doesn’t matter… that our plans are coming
to pass and all of our enemies’ might will not be able to withstand the Ultimate
Solution. After all, we have the vaccine and they do not.
"What none of you know… what has been withheld from you," said Sebastian
with a very disrespectful look at Asha, "is the fact that the meddling pigeon
has stumbled upon a rogue test case of the virus while in her self-imposed
exile… and in her usual tiresome fashion, she is asking too many questions
and sticking her nasty Muggle nose into affairs that ought to be none of
her concern."
Sebastian pulled a half-smoked cigarette from his tattered red robes.
"The thing to do is not to wait until she finds the vaccine or even a cure.
She is living thousands of miles away from her Muggle family and wizarding
friends. Our informants report that she is living without magic… she may
not even have her wand. Let us not wait until our Ultimate Solution is dismantled
and ineffective. Let us strike now," he crushed the cigarette butt between
his fingertips, then flattened it under his sandal, "while she is isolated
and opportunity is on our side!"
There was a pause, as if the gathered assembly was trying to decide how to
react to this. Then a single cheer came from the topmost bank of seats… and
spread downward like a wave, the sound splashing against the edges of the
dais.
But now Asha had come to stand, shooting a reproving glance at Sebastian.
This was even more shocking… for protocol demanded that the Grand Inquisitor
not stand during Cabal sabbats. However on that day, protocol seemed to have
been tossed out of the Great Hall’s gilt-shuttered windows.
"Your fervor for the Dark is commendable as always, young Sebastian," said
Asha. "However, you make the fatal mistake of the first Grand Inquisitor,
the esteemed Lord of Lords. You make the mistake of obsession. The Dark Lord
of Lords’ downfall was his fixation on the Accursed One. Everyone knows that…
his singleminded hatred of the boy made him so myopic that he didn’t see
his own demise coming!
"It is best not to allow our passions to overrule our good judgment. Roger
is right to commend all for that which has come to pass due to the tireless
efforts of all, and to inform the assembly of that which will shortly take
place after this. Let us not make the mistake of Voldemort… and do let us
continue to be grateful to the martyrdom of our esteemed past Inquisitor,
Lady Hecate Quirke, Fourth Incarnation of Ibadiran. To continue to focus
this Cabal’s efforts and energies on enemies of the past would be counterproductive
and could prove fatal…"
"What will prove fatal is if you continue to ignore this potential Achilles’
heel…"
"Sebastian, that is enough!" The Grand Inquisitor’s staff of the Cabal, with
its glowing green orb, struck the sandstone of the dais sharply. "I have
spoken. Now, no more of this… the proceedings will continue as planned."
And proceed they did. There were more laudatory speeches of state, reports
from the various affiliate organizations, and a few ceremonial hexes said.
By noon, it was time to take a break for the midday meal, which would be
served elsewhere in the Palace.
Not everyone attended this meal, however. There were a few items of pressing
business that had to be taken care of first.
There was a room underneath the dais of the Great Hall that not many knew
about. Those who did made their excuses to their companions for missing the
afternoon meal, then made their way down the long corridors and secret passageways
that snaked deep underneath the Palace of the Lost like an old man’s varicose
veins. Pulling their blood-red hoods up to obscure their faces as they went…
and also donning eerie-looking masks that like all wizarding masks, molded
to their faces and morphed their appearances.
A cat, a cow. A crocodile who liked to bare its sharp teeth.
A jackal. A lion. A black boar with a juicy conversation.
A goose. A hippopotamus. A ram with exceedingly sharp tips on his curly horns.
One by one the animals of the makeshift pantheon reached a too-short, oddly
shaped door. Once arrived, they knocked out an arcane, staccato rhythm and
were immediately given entry.
The one who had called them to the secret meeting was already there. His
hood was up too, but the single candle that illuminated the room lit up his
features well enough to reveal his identity… Sebastian Borgin.
"Watchmen, what of the night?" asked he, as if it was not the middle of the
day.
"A rogue Inquisitor," hissed the crocodile.
"A renegade Cabal," squawked the goose.
"A Cabalistica which is being led astray," meowed the cat.
"Yes," said Sebastian slowly, stroking his clean-shaven chin as if there
was a beard there. The play of candlelight on his sunken eyes and the skin
pulled tight over his cheekbones as he leered made his face look like a skull.
"What is the verdict, then?"
"Death to the present incarnation of Ibadiran," roared the lion, "whose shoes
the Grand Inquisitor is not worthy to fill."
"Death to all the cowards who sit amongst the thirty-three of the Cabal,"
oinked the boar, "who will not stand with us."
"Death to all those pledged to the Cabal," baaed the ram, "who would try
to defend those who are too weak to live."
Sebastian leered again. "Yes. It is pleasing to me, dear ones, that we are
agreed. Now we should take care to…"
"Who’s there?" said the jackal suddenly, sniffing and looking up.
All of the animals then went sniffing, probing, and peering into the various
dusty and cobwebby corners of the secret chamber. Finally the hippopotamus
exclaimed with excitement, smashing a wooden sarcophagus with meaty, inhuman
fists.
"Ay-ay-ay! Look what we have here, everyone!"
Fiercely, the hippopotamus jerked up the little urchin by the scruff of his
neck. He was a small, scrawny boy of obvious Nilotic descent, around nine
or ten or so, with dark hair that would have had a nice sheen if it wasn’t
quite so dirty.
Sebastian recognized him immediately.
"Well. If it isn’t one of our Grand Inquisitor’s… pets." He walked over to
the boy to ruffle his hair, even as the child squirmed away. "Hasn’t your
mistress taught you manners? Don’t you know it is a dreadful thing to eavesdrop?"
He shook his head and so did the hippopotamus.
The others guffawed, filling the stuffy air with their animal grunts. Some
salivated; in just a few short moments they would have the lunch that they’d
missed coming to this meeting. And what better repast was there for these
detestable demons besides the tender, sweet flesh of children? They were
the kind of nightmarish creatures that even the very young sensed the presence
of, saying prayers, lighting nightlamps, and pulling their covers up to their
chins. Utterly frightened of the dark.
And half a world away, a woman cried out in her sleep, clutching at thin
air.
Yet there was no fear in this little boy’s eyes. Instead there was spunky
defiance.
"It is an even more dreadful thing to murder!" he said. "You hide behind
the faces of the old gods, when all you are is imposters and cowards! Bastet,
Hathor, Sobek, Sekhmet, Geb, Seth, Khnum, and Thoth indeed… I know exactly
who you are! I’m not afraid of you, and I’m not afraid to tell!"
The crocodile came forward to put a cold hand on the boy’s tattered shoulder.
"Son, I think you are too young to know the saying that dead men tell no
tales. Or dead boys, either…"
A half dozen pairs of hands reached for the boy… but he was too quick. He
danced out of the way nimbly, darting between their legs and to the far end
of the chamber. He inserted two small fingers between his lips and blew out
a piercing whistle.
"Sheba, Iman, Dawoud! Ebana, Musuri! Hadad, Tuya! Over here!"
Out of thin air, a group of seven oversized raptors with golden-tipped plumes
soared into the chamber. Chaos ensued as the animal-sorcerers attempted to
fend off their sharp claws and beaks.
Sebastian had endured enough. Drawing out his wand, he avoided the commotion
at the center of the room to search for the boy. "Here, boy… come on out…
if you do not prolong my search, I shall make your death nice and quick.
Pain-free…"
His last words ended with a gurgle as the boy pounced on him from behind.
With surprising strength, his little arms squeezed.
"Who are you?" demanded Sebastian.
"Not who you think I am. That is all you ever need know." A white, toothy
grin flashed in his swarthy little face. "Oh, one more thing… my mother sends
her regards."
"And…" said Sebastian, strangling, "exactly who would your mother be?"
"Why, she’s Nephthys Abidijan, first Lady of the Order… who commands you
to leave her daughter in the Craft alone if you value your life. You will
not just have her to contend with if you do not."
"Daughter... is... our Ibadiran?" grated out Sebastian, obviously surprised
that the waif was not one of Asha's child retainers.
"No," said the boy. "Her daughter in the Craft is our Inanna."
The boy jumped off Sebastian just before he lost consciousness. Summoning
his pet birds, he shoved open the door. The raptors flew ahead as the tiny
boy flew down the narrow corridors, the pack from the bowels of hell on his
heels… there was a distinct white light shining around the corner… but just
before he reached it, he fell and stumbled… then jumped up and leaped from
the window's ledge, golden raptors fluttering overhead, curved talons grasping
to clutch the hem of his linen robes...
"The name is Riki!" came his shout as his scrawny frame hurtled toward the
canyon below...
At that moment, six thousand miles away from El-Kharga, Hermione Granger
awoke from a troubled, fitful sleep with a frightened start.
And the light shineth in the darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not.