Page 23 of Secrets in a Sandstorm

Arrest. If I cannot pay enough to get the charges dropped, then we will face death. At least we shall die together. I find a small comfort in that knowledge.

“Kill him,” the scribe commands.

“No!” I use Bast to hit the soldier in the face. His nose crunches, and blood pours over his mouth.

He cannot kill Ay. Ay rises up, attacking the men guarding him.

I hit the soldier again, and pain blossoms in my gut. I glance down as blood spreads over my white robe. Oh…it’s me the scribe wants dead.

“The priest has not harmed you. Let him go.” Ay struggles against the soldiers who seek only to restrain him. Their cuts are not deep, yet he still bleeds.

“It is too late,” I whisper, dropping to my knees. Bast falls with me. Her bloodied face stares up at me like a lion fresh from the hunt. If I had the heart of a lion, I would not be so useless. I failed her and Ay.

“You broke my nose.” The soldier drives his blade through my back. My lungs burn, and I can’t breathe.

Ay crawls toward me, the flames between us. “My love.”

A rope around his neck jerks him back. The scribe holds the other end. “You work for me.”

“Never,” Ay growls and spits in the sand.

“Then you will never work again, and you will be known as a thief.” The scribe pulls the rope tight, forcing Ay up to his knees. The sword at his throat is meant to keep him motionless; instead, Ay leans into it as if wanting the blade to bite.

As his hands are bound by another soldier, his gaze remains on me.

Each breath I take is small and painful, as if it were my last. There are not many left.

The cavern is growing dim as the flames devour what is left of the oil and find nothing more to consume.

“I would rather be a thief than serve a man who attacks his business partners out of greed,” Ay spits the words as though he is a god and finds the scribe unworthy.

“Cut off his nose,” the scribe orders. “And if you still refuse, your hand will be next.”

A soldier grabs Ay’s chin, and I am forced to watch as the sharp blade destroys the face that I kissed more times than I have drawn breath.

Ay doesn’t scream as blood runs over his mouth and flows over his chin. “We will be together.”

I do not have the breath to make words.

“Gather the gold.” The scribe turns, dragging Ay with him, and makes his way out of the cave. The soldiers follow, not bothering to glance back. They leave me with Bast in the guttering light.

The tip of my love’s nose lies forgotten in the sand. I crawl to it, not caring that the oil-soaked hot sand burns my skin. I kiss Ay’s flesh one last time. Then open my mouth so his flesh may rest on my tongue, and I may take one last taste as I die.

CHAPTER TWELVE

1942

CYRIL

Iwretch, sure the weight of nose is on my tongue and taste of blood is in my mouth, but there’s nothing to spit out. My stomach burns, but I’m not bleeding. Nor am I gasping for breath. I’m very much alive, though in the same cave.

Did I fall asleep and dream of ancient deaths?

No. I’m crouched in the sand, the flashlight is on, and the golden cat in my hand.

If I didn’t fall asleep, then what happened? Did I imagine the murder of the priest and the mutilation of his lover?

It felt as though I was dying. The pain and devastation of watching Ay be ripped away from me is so real, an anguished cry is half-formed on my lips before I swallow it. But it’s not Ay I’m about to lose.

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