“We know there are six gods. One for wealth, one for war, one for nature, one for life, and one for death. We don't know their intentions. It could be that they guide us, meddle with our destiny for the good of all of us...or it could be that we are no more than their puppets, their pawns, in a game we are not aware of. As for the sixth god, it's the desert itself. ” - Ali, Priest of Aida

  ~*~

  Traveling in the desert can be a pleasant experience.

  On the journey to Red Rock, Athia found that sleeping in Sellah’s cart made it even more relaxing. The thick blanket above protected her from the sun and even a few traces of cool breeze found their way to grace her cheek as the cart drifted across the sands. The days passed easily, staring at the desert and listening to the cheery talk between Sellah and his family.

  Without a thick blanket, to protect her from the shade, a plump merchant to keep her amused, or even a cool wisp of air to give her just enough strength till the next one floated by, Athia settled in for a very different experience.

  “I’ve experienced worse,” Bayek told her. “To reach your golden sands, I had to cross the White Plains. Many times I had taken a chance when half my water was gone. I had to decide whether to go back or hope that I would find water ahead.”

  Athia, unlike the day before, listened to Bayek talk more closely. For a man who was so somber and silent before, he was almost talkative after leaving Red Rock. Each time he fell silent, Athia felt a heavy weight drop, pressuring her to talk. He was waiting for her explanation, her side of the story. The pressure was enough, at least, for Athia to start her tale.

  “White Tree Oasis, that’s where I come from,” Athia said.

  ~*~

  Shacks littered the dying White Tree Oasis. There were a few houses made from mud bricks, but that seemed counterintuitive when one’s oasis was drying up. The water receded so much, leaving a muddy slush that appeared dried on the surface, but one wrong step and your leg could sink in an instant. There were occasions when an entire person could be seen sinking to their doom, only just being saved by those brave enough to pull them back. In order to reach the water, wide chunks of branches and sticks were laid out, creating a slow sinking bridge that made it easier and much safer to reach the remaining water.

  The smart had already left for someplace else, taking what water they could from the large, muddy puddle that remained. It was easy to see how large it once was from the distance between the water’s edge and a large, dead white tree.

  A dying oasis meant an abundance of thieves trying to survive. Without horses or camels or bravery to face the desert on their own two feet, they chose the only option left. Steal from the prince of the oasis, a prince who thought he was the Sultan. A common blight on the Everlasting Desert in times of peace.

  The prince took from the peasants and hid in his palace. While many were surviving on the scraps of dried meat and fruit, he still ate grapes and drank clear water. His guards were thugs who had no problem beating the desperate people and throwing them into cells. When the cells were full, they settled with destroying their crumbling homes. It didn’t take much, only a handful of these tyrant-protecting monsters were needed.

  The prince kept them loyal by giving them a taste of luxury and with their help, the people were kept underfoot. He was a man who would squeeze every last coin from the oasis before he packed up and left to find some paradise, perhaps retire with a new name or try to repeat the same process.

  Athia soon became the only thief with enough bravery and strength to continue stealing. She kept going mainly because she enjoyed the thrill of it, but she was also aware her days were numbered in White Tree.

  What she stole from the guards and their homes she tried to share, but there were more mouths than food. It was futile and she knew it. Even if she could steal the entire contents of the palace, it would not save everyone from what was to happen.

  The others could not rely on a young girl, who did barely enough to feed herself, and bitterly they sought out other options. Everyone was on their own and they knew it. When Athia saw how quickly the people turned away from her, Athia cut her ties, as best she could, because they had already cut their ties with her.

  Instead, Athia focused on her escape.

  It seemed strange that when this thought crossed her mind she saw an old woman packing a cart with two dark oxen. While the woman was old, Athia could see she was stubborn and strong enough to fight any half-starved thief who tried to steal the cart away from her. Athia decided to bargain with her instead.

  “Anything, I can get you anything you want,” Athia told her.

  The old woman was deaf to these promises, continuing to tighten ropes that held several jars. Each one was tall and thin, tightly packed and ordered. Their hollow sounds told everyone that they would not find water or food in any of the shabby-looking clay pots.

  Athia didn’t like to be ignored and got between the old woman and the cart.

  “I could steal you a chest of coins,” Athia continued. It was true, she could and would, even if she had to make several trips to carry the coins. “Have it for you before you leave.”

  “I don’t need gold,” the old woman snapped, pushing Athia aside with the end of her walking stick. “Or food, or water, and especially thieves. You are all a plague.”

  “We are a symptom of a plague,” Athia retorted. “Of a bad prince, the real curse on this oasis.”

  “Take it from someone a lot older; your ineffectual prince is not the problem. That is!”

  The old woman pointed out towards the desert and then traced the tip of the horizon in a sweeping gesture. She looked at the dunes with hatred.

  “Your little oasis has been shrinking long before it had a prince,” the old woman told Athia. “The desert is unforgiving. Many do what they can to survive, but all die. Many who die are bandits and thieves, but some die bravely, and nobly. Many have died in these shacks, not willing to lift a finger against their neighbor which had enough to share because they were better than that! Ha!”

  With an angry tug at the loose rope, the old woman brought the jars snugly together. She placed a hand on the rim of one jar and tested how much give it had. Tight, but not too tight. Satisfied, she approached the front of the cart.

  Athia didn’t know what to say, her last chance at escape was slipping through her fingers. An idea seemed to drift on the slightest breeze and entered her mind. Athia thought of one thing more valuable than anything in White Tree Oasis.

  "His scepter," Athia pleaded. “He has a golden scepter, with a black jewel, an orb, on top. It is light and no doubt worth more than any-”

  The old woman looked at Athia. Her face was still a frown of disinterest, but her hesitation said otherwise. It was a reaction that Athia was all too happy to see.

  "I could steal it…tonight," Athia continued.

  It was well known in White Tree that the ‘noble’ ruler possessed a scepter. Atop the scepter was a black sphere, like some strange entrancing jewel. The story of how he attained the jewel was even stranger.

  The prince had found a chest that he could not open, so he had his men hack at it for weeks. Hammers struck it, swords chipped at it, but the chest held strong. In the end, it broke through the sheer effort and the might of the prince’s many soldiers who took turns to pry at it or attack it with savage strength. Within it was a black jewel.

  Once the orb was his, the prince considered it a prize signifying his right to rule over the oasis, but he really just wanted another trinket to make him appear more regal. He had it made into a scepter and could always be seen carrying it.

  The old woman's face changed when Athia told her she could steal it. She laughed a feeble chuckle that turned into a sinister cackle as if Athia's desperation was the most amusing thing in the whole desert. The laughter eventually wrenched something loose inside her and she began hacking and coughing as she climbed on her cart.

  Athia, disappointed, turned away and began to walk back into the shadows.

  “Perhaps it was twisted amusement I saw, not interest,” Athia thought.

  "Bring the scepter beyond the dune beneath the moon," the old woman muttered. "I will be gone just before the sun rises, so be quick about it."

  Athia turned to see the back of the old woman as her oxen pulled the cart along the path. It felt like a joking challenge, but Athia didn’t have a better option. With her one chance given, the thief set her eyes on the palace in the distance.

  ~*~

  Bayek interrupted Athia.

  “I see buildings in the distance...ruins. We can rest there till nightfall.”

  Ruin was the only word to describe the buildings. No more than crumbling shacks surrounding a well, which was dry and filled with sand. There was one shack that still had a roof, a dried thatch that was bleached by the sun until pieces began to flake and break off at the slightest breeze. Such sorry sights were commonplace.

  Either the well ran dry, or the people left it behind to seek opportunity, letting years of sandstorms slowly consume the remnants of their homes. It was a bitter sight for everyone in the desert to see a source of water taken away. It was almost an unspoken rule that the most heinous crime one could commit was the destruction of a source of water. It was a crime that would cost the lives of many.

  Athia found it fitting, considering the story she was telling.

  Bayek attempted to help Athia down from the camel, but she refused, jumping down to the sand below.

  “I take it your ankle has healed,” Bayek noted, wrapping a hand around the camel’s reins.

  “Enough for it not to slow me down.”

  Athia and Bayek walked into the shack, guiding the camel in after them. He left the camel by the door knowing it would feel better to see the outside than to feel closed in by the shack.

  “I have seen many homes like this on my journey," Bayek said. "I wonder if Red Rock will end up the same way as White Tree."

  "I don’t know…nothing lasts forever," Athia muttered dismally. "Food gets eaten, water drunk…maybe it is better to be a nomad. Go wherever there is water and opportunity. Always moving, always prospering, and letting the land renew itself. But I imagine it is tiring."

  "It is, but never boring."

  Bayek looked away thoughtfully. Perhaps it would be better to return to his roots, to cross the White Plains, to rejoin the other nomads. A thought that crossed his mind several times when he thought about what came after the death of the Sultan. Yet, thoughts of what came after rarely appealed. Even the thought of returning to his homeland, his tribe, didn’t have so much allure as making it on his own.

  “To see their faces again would be a blessing and a curse,” Bayek thought. “Friends...but reminders of what was lost.”

  What made these thoughts fade faster was the sight of the dark cloud that seemed to hang over Athia’s head.

  "It is still hours before the sun sets," Bayek said, sitting down with a grunt. He was forty-five and his age was showing in the sounds he made. "Continue your story."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  "Mm...the guards were drunk that night, it was easy to sneak past them and into the prince’s palace," Athia continued. "Stealing the scepter was not so easy, because I knew exactly where it would be."

  ~*~

  The palace was U-shaped, with an entrance at each point. Athia figured that she would enter through one archway, find and steal the scepter, and slip out through the second archway if the scepter was in the central throne room, as she expected it to be.

  The one side Athia chose to start with was the worst. It was the makeshift barracks the off-duty guards slept in. Beds were strewn about, surrounding a large fire pit. What was once a beautiful alcove for royalty and guests to relax was now a mess of thugs and discarded food.

  The food Athia discovered by accident while creeping between the sleeping forms. Her foot pressed on something soft and for a moment she thought she had stepped on someone's hand. To her disgust and relief, it was a bunch of rotten grapes. While the people slogged through the sludge that the oasis had become, the guards let good food rot in their squaller.

  Paying more attention to where she stepped, Athia continued until she was halfway, moving slowly around the firepit. The groaning sound caught her ear, and she turned to see a guard on the other side of the pit waking.

  Hunkering down, Athia was able to hide between him and the large, dancing fire. Even when the guard glanced in her direction, all he saw was the flames, its light hurting his eyes. He rubbed them as he walked to the entrance, stepping on some sleeping guards who grunted their displeasure, cursing him over his drunken apologies.

  Athia, by this time, had left the guards behind and had made it further into the palace.

  To her dismay, the night was painfully silent. Had there been a breeze whistling between the pillars and down the halls, or better yet, a sandstorm, then her footsteps wouldn't seem to make so much noise. If she wanted to be careful, her progress would be painfully slow.

  Yet, there was not a soul around to hear Athia's steps. No guards walking through the palace, no servants. It was exactly what Athia expected from the pathetic ruler of White Tree. The chambers held nothing, the atrium was clear, so she proceeded into the throne room. She pushed forward until the silence was broken not by her footsteps, but by the choking snore of the prince of the oasis.

  A more pitiful sight Athia could not imagine.

  The prince had fallen asleep on his throne, surrounded by exhausted slaves. Drool ran down from his lips, off his necklaces onto the flamboyant robes he wore. To Athia, this was the poison of wealth. On the weak, its effects were clear and unsightly.

  Yet, among the wretched splendor, was the scepter and its blackened orb, held atop by a golden scorpion. Its tail, claws, and many legs held it firmly on the scepter. It wasn’t a dynamic pose for the scorpion, if anything, it looked like a golden scorpion that had been squashed by the scepter, its final act a death grip on the instrument of its destruction. The prince held the scepter somewhat firmly in his meaty fingers. Athia had hoped for an easy steal, but the slumbering mass had a knack for making life difficult for others.

  Athia walked between the slaves and to the throne. She reached for the scepter and wrapped her fingers around it, lifting it slowly to test his grip. It held for a moment, so Athia placed a hand on his forearm so it would not lift when she pulled a little harder.

  A slave awoke, making soft sounds, and saw the thief.

  Athia, meeting the slave’s gaze, threw caution to the wind and dashed in the direction of the exit. She leaped over one sleeping servant and made for the first archway, but noticed in the time she was running, there was not a sound or yell. She looked back and saw the slave smiling, ensuring the prince stayed asleep with delicate humming.

  Movement out of the corner of her eye, Athia looked at another servant who entered, holding a knife with murderous intent. The three exchanged glances.

  The slave gestured with her head for Athia to move on. Athia felt her blood turn cold. She didn’t hesitate. It was a stroke of good fortune that ensured her escape would remain unnoticed. She left the palace through the second exit, the guards now sleeping at their posts instead of drunkenly swaying.

  In a moment, Athia was running towards the dune beneath the moon.

  ~*~

  Athia took a moment to take stock as she jogged the rest of the way, seeing the old woman in the distance.

  She had her waterskin, her dagger, and finally a few coins. It was enough for a few meals, but certainly not in White Tree. It was an oasis she wanted to become a distant memory by the next day.

  The old woman’s eyes gleamed, staring at the scepter that Athia held aloft. Athia expected to see surprise in the woman’s eyes, but instead, it was something akin to greed. A deep desire to get a hold of the scepter, no matter how. Athia knew these emotions and how dangerous they could be.

  She stopped short of the cart.

  “I have the scepter,” Athia said, announcing the obvious.

  “And I have a place for you on the cart until we reach the next city,” the old woman crooned. “Bring it here, girl.”

  Athia approached and reluctantly held the scepter up for the old woman. Once more, Athia expected the wrong reaction. The old woman shook her head and patted the closest wheel of the cart.

  “Break the orb,” the old woman said.

  Athia looked at the old woman in shock. Something so valuable could surely be sold for a fortune in a large enough city. From the rich to the nobles, many would exchange a pile of gold for the scepter and the perfect, black orb it held.

  “Break it yourself,” Athia said.

  “If only I could. Break it, child,” the old woman ordered.

  Again, Athia hesitated.

  “Come now, be quick, or I leave without you,” the old woman encouraged with a hungry look in her eye.

  Athia didn’t care so much to question it further. She gripped the scepter in both hands, positioned herself, and swung. The orb hit the wheel and a loud cracking sound followed. Something felt wrong, but encouraged by the old woman, Athia swung it again and then a third time successfully shattering the orb. From it escaped an unimpressive cloud of black vapor.

  It drifted slowly upwards, but instead of thinning, it grew thicker and larger. The cloud seemed alive, moving in every direction randomly. Athia had not seen such an oddity in her life and felt a terrible fear. She wanted to run, but at the speed the cloud moved, she knew it would be pointless.

  The cloud darted for the cart and the old woman, bursting in a dark puff. From the cloud came the sound of twanging metal, creaking wood, and an otherworldly rumble. The rumble turned into a deep laugh, not cruel, but not nice either. If anything, the laughter seemed to sigh, as if in relief.

  Athia found sand between her fingers and realized she had fallen backward when the cloud hit the cart. She thought about crawling to her feet and running, but once more, her mind wouldn’t allow it. It wanted to see what happened.

  As the darkness dissipated, the cart, ox, and old woman were no longer there, at least, not what they once were.

  The black oxen were larger, their horns wicked and a chilling aura surrounded them. The cart changed similarly, becoming larger, less rickety, and more menacing. The jars in the back of the cart were smaller, almost as small as a finger, but many. The pile of dark, but almost glowing jars distracted Athia briefly before she turned to the woman at the reins.

  “My turn,” she said in a voice far younger than she looked.

  The darkness danced around and vanished. The old woman had changed the most.

  From the cart, she stepped down, now taller than anyone Athia had seen before, the perfect size for such a massive cart. The robes she wore were thick and splendid, a smoking color, as if a fire clouded her figure. Her hair was no longer an aged white, but wispy gray, hairs hovering as if they too were smoke.

  Her face was no longer lined with wrinkles. She was younger, even beautiful, but her face was spoiled by black lines that ran from the corner of her eyes down her cheeks, like that of a cheetah. The dark eyes settled on Athia, making her more uncomfortable.

  Athia, who knew the giant standing in front of her must be a god, felt trapped.

  “You’ve done well,” the goddess of death said simply, examining her fingers and the way the smoking coils of robe flowed between them “Long...long has it been...ah, never mind...my work begins now.”

  She then looked perplexed, scanning the desert around her. Annoyance flashed across her face.

  “Gone…where is she?” the goddess muttered. “She…I see.”

  The black eyes flicked to Athia, the young thief’s heart almost bursting. She started to breathe heavily. From the smoke, another jar appeared, no more than a large bead in the tall god’s fingers.

  “I felt it...I felt it at that moment,” Athia told Bayek. “I had helped her and she bound me to her. What she held in her hand was...me, my heart or my soul...I don’t know. The goddess has all our souls, but in her hands, I felt a cold that didn’t make me shake. Instead, I felt empty.”

  With another flowing flick, the jar disappeared, returning to the pile on the cart. The god of death frowned.

  “Child, your name.” the god ordered.

  “Athia,” she replied.

  “I am Nef, mistress of souls. I trust I have not been forgotten.”

  “No, you have not.”

  “Athia, you have done me a greater service than you realize. I was bound, my powers contained, and my place among the stars stolen, all of which you have returned to me. Now, I have a gift for you.”

  Nef knelt down and her cold fingers approached Athia faster than she could dodge. With a sweeping motion, Athia felt her hair lift and fall as Nef's hand withdrew. Athia didn’t feel different, but she looked different. She held some of her hair in the moonlight and saw all color had been taken, her hair as white as her robes.

  “You’re now blessed,” Nef told her. “All those that see you shall praise you, as is custom. By releasing my powers, you have begun a…noble quest.”

  Athia’s eyes lingered on her hair.

  “Quest?”

  “I am not the only god to have been bound. My brothers and sister still remain trapped like I was. I know this, their presence in the Everlasting Desert has faded so much. Yet, I can sense their power, and it still resonates. There is only one thing I can’t sense…”

  Athia looked up to see the fleeting anger cross Nef’s face before her neutral expression returned.

  “I need you to free the rest of my family,” Nef explained. “These binds cannot be broken by those who wear them, nor can a god such as I release them. You, a mortal, have broken the first and now only you can break the rest. Do so and your reward will be far greater than a small blessing.”

  Athia hesitated, as anyone would. To be speaking to a god was a reward in itself, to have been blessed by a god was even greater, but the promise of something more terrified her.

  “Know this,” Nef continued before Athia could answer. “Once you accept, you cannot turn back, for I will remove my blessing if you do. If you should die before releasing my brothers and sister, all you have released shall be bound again. Betray me, or take too long, and I shall find another to take your place and while I still have power, take your life in turn.”

  Athia was given a choice. Nef didn’t mince her words, making it clear what the consequences were. Fear in her heart begged her to refuse, but a self-destructive desire to take up the quest screamed louder. It was there, an opportunity. She was alone, knowing little of where to go and what to do. The quest had easy answers.

  “I...I don’t even know where to start,” Athia told the goddess and Nef smiled.

  ~*~

  “I accepted, and she told me to go to Red Rock,” Athia finished. “She said I would find a jewel there, one “more valuable than every oasis in the desert”. It would be the key. After that…small hints of where to go…such as this white city…then North…then East….and so on. I think I fell asleep at that moment, carried away by her cart, only to awake in a cluttered city North of White Tree. I learned from overhearing a storyteller that the Sultan had a jewel, one that sounded a lot like the one Nef told me about…you can guess the rest.”

  Bayek nodded slowly, still trying to make sense of the madness he was hearing. He looked at Athia.

  “You told me your family had hair just like yours,” Bayek said.

  “I lied...the truth is I don’t even know my family…I don't know where they are,” Athia blinked, trying not to linger on the thought. “I couldn’t tell anyone the real reason...especially when the storyteller recognized my hair, saying he knew it had meaning, how it was either a curse or a blessing. Even Atlasi knew what it was.”

  “How does this blessing work?”

  “It’s a mark,” Athia replied ruefully. “Maybe it mattered years ago, as it shows you’ve been favored by a god, that you’re being watched over. Those marked with such hair were to be revered. Nobody really worships the gods anymore, their presence has not been felt in the desert since Atlasi’s miracle, so this hair only makes it easy for me to be spotted.”

  Bayek’s face became unmoving. Athia waited for him to show some sort of emotion, but it seemed he settled back into being a stone-faced assassin again. Perhaps it was the seriousness of Athia's situation or the idea that he might be in greater danger with her than he was in Red Rock.

  It was an uncomfortable feeling for Athia.

  Bayek stood and began checking his sash. Unable to find what he was looking for, he went to the camel and started looking through the supplies he brought. He withdrew a knife and then focused his eyes on Athia. Athia’s discomfort reached a new level.

  “If your hair marks you, then we must get rid of it,” Bayek said simply.

  Athia smiled and shook her head.

  “That won’t work,” Athia told him, smiling at his ignorance, but then held her hand out. Bayek gave her the knife and she took a length of hair, cutting through it quickly. She let it fall next to where she sat. It seemed to fade before it hit the sand and the hair in her hand returned to its original length. “Only she can take this away now...although, I’ve grown to like it. Even if I could cut away every hair, it wouldn’t make a difference."

  For Bayek, seeing the hair disappear and regrow only cemented Athia's cunning in his mind. It alone would have been enough to prove her story, but she waited for his reaction, to see if he trusted her word alone. It made him smile. Her mind would keep them from getting into too much trouble - that was the hope anyway.

  “How do we find these gods? What do they look like?” Bayek asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Athia said, genuinely clueless. “She hardly looked like a god when I met her.”

  “Who could contain the gods in such a way?” Bayek asked and once more, Athia did not have the answers.

  Bayek looked down at Athia. He could see her frustration clearly, no longer hidden beneath a facade. She had told him everything and she, like anyone in her situation, was scared.

  "It is still an hour before dark, but we might as well leave now," Bayek said finally. "It seems the whole desert is against us, the last thing we need is time against us too."

  Bayek led the camel out of the shack, Athia following slowly behind. Bayek seemed as aloof as his words. Not many people would react in such a way, especially ones who doubted the existence of the gods.

  “I’m sorry for adding to your troubles, Athia,” Bayek said, climbing onto the camel’s saddle. “From what I’ve heard and what you’ve told me, these gods are enough trouble as is. The last thing you needed was the Red Guard, perhaps even the whole desert, searching for you.”

  Bayek pulled Athia up and onto the camel.

  “Well, searching for us,” Bayek corrected himself. “I will help you with your quest, as you helped me with mine. It’s the least I can do.”

  “And perhaps I will redeem myself for what I did…because the Sultan’s death doesn’t sit right in my heart,” Bayek thought.

  The two left the ruin behind. No longer two strangers with shared enemies, but friends with a shared journey.