Heshtat left early the next morning, after an afternoon of chaos with his nieces and an evening of drinks and laughter with his adoptive sister and her husband. Cleo had asked him to come to the palace two days hence, which left him a single day to recruit two people; the one he wanted by his side when facing death, and the one he needed to get him in front of said death in order to face it.

  The morning sun tried to stab him in the head in recompense for his overindulgence the night prior, but he blinked, squinted, and winced his way through the first hour. After swigging away at a flask of fresh fruit juice—pomegranate and fig, both native to the floodplains outside the city—he had the hangover mostly wrestled into submission and sped his way across the outer districts with only a single stop.

  Exchanging coin with a wine merchant while still nursing a mild headache gave him painful flashbacks to the wretched creature he had been in that first year of his exile, but he pushed the memories away. This purchase wasn’t for him, after all.

  By the time he had reached his destination—a small compound at the edge of the city—he had shaken off the worst of last night’s excesses. He was met at the gate by a tall boy. Not quite yet a man, though old enough to have the strength of one, if not the brains. He challenged Heshtat as he approached, but after some quick back and forth, he was allowed entry.

  Following along behind his guide in silence, Heshtat glanced around at the compound as they walked. It was familiar enough from the few visits he had made, but the creche had grown over the last two years. It now boasted a new training hall, with bundles of reeds spread on the floor to lesson impact. Heshtat watched a group of young children being taught the basics of grappling and throwing by older children, overseen by an adult Heshtat had never met before.

  Then he heard his friend’s voice as they passed through an arched hallway and into the main training yard. Dummies were clustered at one edge, large bags of sand in a pile nearby with some thick ropes, while racks of weapons—some wooden, some not—stood opposite. And in the centre of the yard, lecturing a group of a dozen boys and girls in their mid-teens, was Maatkare.

  “… and so we see the difficulty in matching ourselves against others we do not know, yes? But why then am I always saying that skill is the most important aspect in a fight if it is not true, hmm? Can anyone answer?”

  Heshtat leaned against the archway, content to watch his friend teach for a time. Maatkare was short for a warrior, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in width. Brown curls framed a handsome face, and he was dressed in the simple robes of a teacher; blue and red lines of colour dyed into the hems. He had an easy way about him, sharing smiles and laughs with his students generously, a far cry from the intimidating trainers Heshtat had once lived under.

  One gangly girl raised an arm, tentative in her gesture though her voice was strong when she answered. “Because it is all that we can control.”

  “Exactly! Aya is correct, my lovely students, and you’d do well to listen to her more, eh? All know cultivation is the key to overpowering your opponent, so why dwell on it? It is for the priests to teach of those matters, not I. But I emphasise the skill you can gain here in this very yard because it is within the grasp of each and every one of you. No matter your family’s status, your personal wealth, or your connections and utility to the guilds, skill at arms is always yours to learn.”

  It was a lovely sentiment, though Heshtat privately thought it a little too optimistic. No amount of skill with a blade would overcome the gulf in power of one who had cultivated their soul in the light of the divine, and Maatkare knew that as surely as he did. But Heshtat was also aware that most of these children would never have to face real soldiers, real cultivators. They would perhaps run into the type of violence doled out by petty criminals and bandits though, and so a little weapons-work now could save their lives in the future. He didn’t fault his friend for trying to inspire them.

  “Ptahmose—step forward.”

  At his friend’s pronouncement, a well-muscled boy towards the back of the group stepped out of the rough formation and approached, giving a shy grin as Maatkare clapped him on the back.

  “As we all know, Ptahmose has awakened his soul. Yes, yes, congratulations, my young friend. But is that enough for us to conclude that he could defeat me in battle?” Maatkare asked the crowd. The awakened boy vehemently shook his head, and Maatkare favoured him with a good-natured smile before turning back to the group. “In short; no. It would be a powerful advantage, but not necessarily enough to bridge the gap in skill between us.

  “Alas, it only grows more complex as we delve further, and this, my dear students, is why I say that you should never fight a cultivator, no matter the power of your own soul. There are more than a thousand gods, and each can be channelled into one of the nine aspects of the soul. The combinations are near limitless, and while some are more common than others, you will never know what your enemy is capable of.”

  “Let us take Ptahmose here as an example. If he had awakened the aspect of Khet—The Physical Body—with a channel to Hapi, the goddess of the Nikean floods, then what does that mean? A general increase in physicality, as befitting one who has awakened an aspect of their soul. A more profound increase in physicality as befitting one who has awakened the Khet, specifically. But then what of the specific channel he used to awaken that soul node? Perhaps Hapi has blessed him with the ability to dramatically increase his strength and speed in one moment; to become the flood himself in a surge of power, leading to an equal stretch of vulnerability afterwards? Or perhaps he waxes and wanes in physical strength in a cyclical manner as the floods do?

  “Or more abstract, perhaps he can move forwards in a rush, but loses that same speed when moving laterally. Perhaps he is like water, gathering momentum while moving but being weak as a mortal when not. And those are only the possibilities when awakening one aspect with a channel to one deity. Even were we to know the specific aspect, the specific level of cultivation, and the specific channel that a warrior possesses, we still would not know for sure their capabilities, and it is unlikely you will know those features of your opponent before a fight. Add to that the confusion presented by multiple awakened channels… and you hopefully see my point, yes?”

  “So how did you fight them, Sesh? How did you assess the danger?” one of the students asked him.

  “I didn’t,” Maatkare said seriously. “My job was to fight whoever would harm my charge. Whether I could win or not was irrelevant, and I was expected to give my life for that purpose. That is my point. Every fight with an unknown cultivator is a potential death, and violence is not worth it if there are other options.”

  He caught sight of Heshtat then, and turned back to his group of attentive students, clapping his hands to conclude the lecture.

  “But if there are no other options?” he asked, and the question had the ring of ritual to it.

  “Go for the throat!” his students shouted in unison.

  “Good, now group up. I have business to attend to, and I expect you to have mastered the swan bows at sunset by the time I return! Half speed, wooden weapons. I want no injuries, you hear? Ptahmose, I leave you in charge.”

  ***

  “Ha!” Maatkare barked a laugh as Heshtat finished his explanation. “So, my friend, you have need of a surpassing expert, and have come to old Maatkare for guidance, hmmm?”

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  “I should have expected this,” Heshtat replied with a weary sigh, though he couldn’t quite hide his smile. Age had seemed to only enhance his friend’s ebullience. “I need more than guidance though. I need your sword arm. I need somebody to stand beside me in the face of certain death.”

  “And so you have come to your oldest and most trusted friend,” Maatkare replied with the smug air of a hermit crab showing off its new shell to a mate.

  “I have precious few options. Do not flatter yourself.”

  “Nonsense, my friend! It is a sacred bond that binds us, and I shall not let you down—”

  “Enough,” Heshtat said with a laugh, waving his friend off as the shorter man wrapped him in a bone-rattling hug. “Enough, Maatkare. It is good to see you, but let us be serious for a moment. This is a dangerous task—likely suicidal—and I need you to consider it fully before you commit.”

  Maatkare sighed, releasing him and sauntering back over to his desk. He flopped down into the wooden chair, shuffling a few sheafs of parchment and a vellum scroll around. He made a show of considering one of them, turning to look out of the window for a time, and then leaned back.

  Heshtat waited.

  Maatkare tapped his foot. He moved the quill and ink from one side of the desk to the other. He examined his nails briefly, whistling a jaunty tune as he did so, and then turned to look at the twin tulwars mounted on the wall behind him. Eventually, he turned back to Heshtat once more.

  “I have considered. I will come.”

  “You have not changed at all,” Heshtat sighed.

  “Do you not see the grey in my hair? Does my beard not gleam silver as well as brown? Do not say such things, my friend. I have changed a great deal.”

  “Your gut has grown, certainly,” Heshtat pointed out with a smile.

  “Insolence!” the older man cried, jolting to his feet, though there was a playful gleam in his eyes.

  Heshtat turned to look out of the window that dominated the small study. The clack of wooden weapons, the grunts and shouts of the students as they sparred and trained, the crunch of gravel and sand under foot… it all sounded achingly familiar and brought him back to a simpler time.

  But he couldn’t dwell on the past. His duty lay in the present, and so he wrenched himself from his memories and turned back to his friend. Maatkare watched him with a small smile.

  “It is easy to get lost, is it not?” he asked. Heshtat was momentarily shocked by his preternatural insight, before the man continued. “I find myself struggling to work while they train. There is something so innocent about it. Reminds me of the good days.”

  Heshtat grunted. He could easily empathise. “You seem to be doing well for yourself now though,” he said, gesturing around at the small study, though he meant to encompass the entire compound. “Honestly, I am surprised you have not yet found yourself a wife or husband to settle down with.”

  “The great Maatkare, playing house with a partner? Please, my friend, you do me a disservice.” Heshtat smiled, knowing the words were said in jest more than anything. “Besides,” Maatkare continued, “you remember what Old Seti told us?”

  “About love?” Heshtat confirmed. “I believe he said that it was a fool’s gamble.”

  “No, not that.”

  “That it dulls the senses and weakens the arm?”

  “Not that either.”

  “That it broadens the gut and drives hard men slovenly? You are halfway there already.”

  “Now you are being deliberately obtuse, my friend,” Maatkare huffed. “No. He said that for men and women like us, those whose duty is all-encompassing… for us, there is no space for love.”

  “And yet he is, by all accounts, a devoted husband and father to this day,” Heshtat pointed out.

  “Too true. But what my esteemed friend fails to consider,” he said with a smirk Heshtat’s way, “is that he only found a good woman after hanging up his blade and his duty.”

  “So what is your excuse, Maatkare? I see nobody warming your hearth and home. We both know you are far too old to continue your philandering ways, so where is your love?”

  Maatkare sighed. “I may have adapted better than you to exile, my friend, but I am still a slave to duty. It simply lies in a different direction now.” He said it with a faint smile as he watched the young boys and girls train outside with spear and shield, sword and sling.

  Heshtat paused, suddenly seeing his friend in a new light. He’d thought the man as trapped in the past as he was, turning to teaching the young because he didn’t know what else to do. Perhaps a little less dedicated than Heshtat, perhaps a little less willing to get his hands dirty to keep a finger on the pulse of Idib’s many creeping criminal empires, but still considering himself a failed Tomb Guard, rather than a former one. The way he had leapt at the chance to risk his life once more seemingly only confirmed that.

  And yet, he’d found purpose. Heshtat had wondered, as he had arrived, at the change in his friend. The crow’s feet around his eyes and the ease with which his smile brightened the day. He’d always been a jovial man, flashing his perfect teeth at any beautiful man or woman that looked his way, but there was a softness to him now, a tenderness that Heshtat only recognised in this very moment.

  He looked again to the training yard. Past the weapons, the sweating and the grunting and familiar sights and sounds that reminded him so strongly of his former life. He trained his view on the faces of the children as they fought. No glares or frowns, no open-mouthed exhaustion or rictus grins promising swift retribution for pain fairly given. Instead, their faces were softer, too. He saw smiles, saw happiness and joy.

  Maatkare had built a creche, not a barracks, and Heshtat had been too blind to see the signs staring him in the face until now. Finally seeing the evident joy with which his students trained, Heshtat suddenly wasn’t surprised that Maatkare looked happier these days. The real wonder was that he wanted to leave it all.

  “What is it, my friend?” Maatkare asked him as Heshtat turned back his way.

  “I am reconsidering my offer.”

  “It was no offer. It was a cry for help, and one that I shall answer. And if you think I will abandon my captain—abandon my queen!—then you are further gone than I had realised.”

  “What does that mean?” Heshtat asked, frowning.

  “These years have not been kind to you. You know this and I know this. Look, my friend, it does not matter. You need my help, and I will be there. That is what matters.”

  Heshtat sighed. If only it was so simple. “You have built a life here, Maatkare. I see that now. Do not be so quick to throw it away.”

  “Coming from you? Great Amin-Ra—do you see this? Do you hear such drivel spill from this man’s mouth?” Maatkare asked dramatically to the heavens. “Honestly, my friend, you are one of Amansi’s greatest hypocrites. But do not despair, your oldest and most handsome friend will see you through. We shall ride gators up the Nikea and take the Eye from the creator’s temple in front of our enemies in a blaze of glory, and you shall forget this nonsense notion of dictating to your friends where they can and cannot tread.”

  Heshtat’s indignation melted away under the onslaught of his friend’s good-humoured avalanche of conversation, and just as Maatkare had predicted, he gave up on trying to keep him away. The man had given Heshtat his word, and that was all there was to it. He couldn’t deny the feeling of relief though. No matter how unassailable the odds, they felt somehow more manageable with Maatkare by his side.

  “So who else will join us on this quest?” Maatkare asked, bringing Heshtat back to the present.

  “It shall be you and I that enter the temple alone,” Heshtat said, thinking aloud. “But we need somebody to help get us there. Smooth our passage, so to speak.”

  “You anticipate trouble?” Maatkare asked, uncharacteristically serious for the moment.

  “You do not?”

  “Good point,” Maatkare allowed. “But of what kind specifically?”

  “The vague kind,” Heshtat replied. “Honestly, my friend, I do not know. There are many things to consider, and I expect danger to strike from unexpected directions. We need somebody with a broad set of skills, not a specialist.”

  “Oh no,” Maatkare began to protest.

  “… Somebody who has experience in many different fields and has many different contacts,” Heshtat continued, a faint smile growing on his face as he talked, even as the colour drained from Maatkare’s face simultaneously.

  “She is a maniac, Heshtat!” his friend cried. “She will be the death of us, I know it. You cannot—”

  “You know it as well as I, Maatkare. Neferu is the one we need.”

  “She’s reckless! A viper of a woman! I’d not trust her to cook my breakfast, let alone smuggle me across the breadth of Amansi.”

  Heshtat laughed. “She was your apprentice. If she is so useless, that is a damning indictment on your teaching.”

  “It is not her skills that concern me, you dolt! Nor even her competence. Neferu has always been a thrill-seeker, and now that she has found a love for the ancient and the lost, she has become insatiable.”

  “True,” Heshtat agreed pleasantly. “But perhaps that is what we need for a dangerous mission.” Maatkare sighed, and Heshtat took it as a victory. “Still, I must leave soon if I stand any chance of reaching her today. We are to meet at the palace tomorrow night. I will swing by after recruiting our friend.”

  “She’s your friend. She’s my greatest source of despair,” Maatkare said, pretending at sullen. His infectious grin broke through before he could maintain the pout for more than a few seconds, though. “But she lacks my masculine charm, eh?” He laughed. “Still, it has the makings of a joke, does it not? A crazed dungeon-delver, a handsome teacher, and a brooding swordsman all walk into a bar…”

  “I cannot help but notice you gave yourself a rather complimentary prefix there,” Heshtat said with smile.

  Still, he was right, they would be form a strange company. But Heshtat didn’t have time for second-guessing the wisdom of decisions now. He was committed. And besides, a dangerous journey required fools to brave it.