Sins of the Flesh

“Why—” He swallowed. Tried again. “Why do you ask me what I see?”


“I am always curious about the way that mortal minds work, the things they choose to see when they come to me.” A pause, then, “Come to me, Pyotr Kuznetsov, High Reverend of the Cult of Setnakht, loyal follower of Sutekh. Come to me, now.”

Pyotr tried to push to his feet, but he collapsed against the stairs once more, his chest banging the sharp stone edge.

“Come to me.”

With a whimper, he crawled forward, up the stairs, his vision expanding the higher he went until he saw the full tableau. Horror iced his veins. He had hoped—prayed—that he had been brought to his master, to Sutekh. He saw now that prayer was in vain.

At the top of the stairs, beside the central stone pillar of the massive scale, was a man. His body was broad and heavily muscled, and his head was that of a jackal. Anubis. Beside him was an enormous statue of a beast, carved with forelegs thrust forward. It had the head of a crocodile, the body of a leopard—

“Ammut, the Devourer,” Pyotr whispered.

Not a statue, but the Eater of Hearts herself. She would wait as Anubis judged the heart of a man against the feather of Ma’at—truth. If the heart was heavy, she would eat it, eat the soul, devour and destroy any hope of rebirth.

The trembling that took him then made his arms collapse out from beneath his weight, and he lay on the cold stone, a wriggling worm.

“I—” Panting, he struggled to master his emotions. Again he tried to rise. Again, he failed. He lay there on the stone, his legs trailing down the stairs, his body on the landing. His muscles were jelly. His bones were limp. “I am sworn to Sutekh. I am under his protection,” he managed at last.

Anubis stared at him with eyes like black marbles. Expressionless. Pitiless.

“You are sworn to him,” Anubis agreed, but then his next words squashed the hope that unfurled in Pyotr’s breast. “But he is not sworn to protect you.”

“Am I dead?” The words erupted, laced with terror. Even as he asked the question, he thought himself foolish to waste his words looking for confirmation of what he already knew. But it was human nature to hope, to imagine that against all odds, he might prevail.

“You are.”

“Will I be reborn?” he croaked.

Anubis stared at him, saying nothing.

A shadow moved behind the pillar, and then a woman stepped forward. She was dressed in a flowing, white, diaphanous gown that left her arms bare and stood in contrast to the obsidian curtain of her hair. The cloth undulated as she moved. She was incredibly beautiful, her features delicate, her expression strong. Her eyes were black, lined in kohl, fixed on him with malice.

“Aset,” he breathed, somehow knowing it was she, the enemy of his master, the mother of his enemies.

He had murdered those of her blood. From the way she looked at him, he was convinced that she knew his every crime.

“With your own hand you cut them and bled them,” she said, confirming his fear. “By your orders, others did so. The flesh of my flesh, the blood of my blood. I heard their cries. I heard their sighs and lamentations. Now you will do me the courtesy of telling me why.”

“The prophecy.” The words tore free of his lips, though he didn’t consciously form the thoughts. She summoned them from the depths of his heart and soul and somehow forced him to speak. “The blood of Aset. The blood of Sutekh.”

“Go on.” Aset glided closer, her expression composed and serene, her movement like water flowing smooth and tranquilly. He could not make himself look away, and he could not do other than she bid.

“And the God will pass the Twelve Gates and walk the Earth once more.”

She stared at him for a fleeting second, an eternity, it seemed. And then she turned and walked away, her white gown swallowed by the darkness beyond the scale.

“You will be judged,” Anubis said in a voice devoid of inflection. “Rise.”

Pyotr tried. He put all his will into getting up on his knees, but he failed, collapsing against the cold stone with a piteous whimper.

He never saw Anubis move, but the jackal stood before him now, his sandaled feet inches from his face. With a quick movement, he caught the back of Pyotr’s hair and dragged him up until his torso was off the ground. His other hand streaked forward and a blade gleamed.

Pain exploded in Pyotr’s chest, such pain as he had never imagined, so vast and encompassing that it stole his breath, stole his voice. He could not even cry out.

Anubis let go of him and tossed Pyotr’s dripping heart on the scale.

For an instant, the two sides were even, his heart a match to the feather of truth.

And then slowly, slowly, it sank, the feather rising, his heart falling until the gold plate that held it scraped the stone floor.

Anubis turned his head and held Pyotr’s gaze, and then he raised his hand to Ammut and beckoned her near.





CHAPTER TWENTY