“He’s not here,” Viktor said, gazing at the empty throne. “Why am I not surprised?”

  Sebekton chuckled. “The High Priest is always busy with something else when it’s story time. Maybe next time, Lady Celeste should just teleport us into the subterranean chamber directly.”

  Viktor turned around, casting a glance across the Chamber of the Dead. Akane was also here, of course, stiff as a statue and silent as a grave. She stood at the foot of the dais, head lowered in reverence, hands folded over her sash, her eight eyes never leaving the floor.

  But there was someone else here. Someone new.

  A bird-like creature, with the head of a raven and the body of a human, black wings sprouting from the back of its white robe. It wore a little boxy thing on the crown of its feathered head, and carried a long wooden staff topped with a decorative set of metal rings.

  The creature was studying the carvings along the walls with intense concentration. It was so lost in its own world that it didn’t even flinch when he and Sebekton suddenly popped into the chamber. Akane had tried to draw its attention, prompting it to greet the master of the dungeon, but he had stopped her. Let the bird-man stare at its stones. He would observe it in turn, and might get some entertainment out of this while waiting for Khenemhotep to bother showing up.

  It walked along the walls, gaze fixed on the murals, the rings of its staff jingling with every step. Viktor could see why it was so absorbed. The walls were alive with their stories, horrific and hauntingly beautiful in the same breath. Thick strokes of pigment, wild and vivid, encased in veins of molten gold, depicted scenes that might have been pulled from a long-lost chronicle of forgotten rites. There were priests in stiff robes, heads bowed in ritual. There were corpses lying prepared, organs removed and stored in ornate urns. There were rivers of fire and sand splitting the earth asunder, carving a path for the dead. There were jackal-headed beings observing the procession, silent and watchful, their gaze heavy with judgment.

  Once it had finished admiring the murals, the creature finally turned toward the dais. Then, without warning, it swept into a dramatic, exaggerated bow. Its arms were out, wings half-furled, one clawed foot extended like a dancer frozen mid-performance. The gesture was theatrical to the extreme, the kind one might expect from a stage performer or a very smug noble. And the beak didn’t help. If anything, it pushed the display from absurd to outright comical.

  “Master.”

  It was almost as if the creature had known he was there the entire time and had simply chosen to ignore him until it had gotten its fill of staring at the walls. Brazen little thing. Even a certain mermaid wouldn’t have been this cheeky.

  “You’re a Tengu, right?”

  “Yes, I am,” the creature replied smoothly.

  “Tell me, what does ‘Tengu’ mean?” Viktor asked. He was still wondering why this thing’s name, and that of the spider-women, hadn’t been translated into something more comprehensible.

  “It means ‘Heavenly Dog,’ Master.”

  There was a pause.

  “You’re a bird,” Viktor said as he gave the creature a long, slow look.

  The Tengu shrugged. “So I’ve been told.”

  “Then why do you carry such a name?”

  “Language evolves, Master. Meanings shift. Names outlive their origins. Sometimes they remain long after they’ve stopped describing the thing they were meant to.”

  True enough. The Central Plains were still called the Central Plains, even though there were trees everywhere these days. Oh well, whatever. It made no difference to him what the word “tengu” really meant. At least, it was short and easy to remember, unlike that other one...

  “Come to think of it,” Viktor said, turning to Akane. “What does your name mean anyway? That Joro-something?”

  The spider-woman hesitated.

  “It means... it means ‘Whore Spider,’ Master. The word ‘joro’ means... prostitute.”

  Another pause, this one longer.

  On the bright side, at least it didn’t turn her into a completely different species. Still a spider, not a turtle or a crab or a jellyfish. On the other hand, well, that name was really... something. Suddenly, the decision to leave certain things untranslated made a lot more sense.

  “Anyway,” Viktor said, turning back to the bird-man, “what’s your name? You personal name, I mean.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  The creature straightened, its bearing exuding pride, like a nobleman preparing to recite his illustrious ancestry. “Master, I am Hakuro-no-Kanemitsu, at your service.”

  That earned a third pause.

  As though it could read his mind just by looking at his face, the creature let out a soft, amused chuckle. “I know it’s a bit long. You can just call me Tengu, Master.”

  Viktor waved a dismissive hand. “That won’t do. Addressing someone like that is very rude. I definitely won’t be very pleased if you call me ‘Hey, human.’ Besides, there’s more than one of you here, right? How are you supposed to know I’m talking to you if I just yell ‘Tengu’ across the chamber?”

  “You’re right, Master. Very well. Just call me Haku, then. Short for Hakuro.”

  “Good. Haku it is.” Viktor nodded at his newly arrived minion. “Welcome to my dungeon, Haku.”

  In response, the Tengu bowed again. Low, dramatic, and utterly unnecessary.

  Viktor’s gaze shifted to the murals on the walls, the very same ones the creature had been so engrossed in that it had pretended not to notice his arrival. They told tales of death and ritual, of ordeal and judgment, of lives unraveled and laid bare before a god who had long abandoned his hall, his throne now cold and empty.

  “So, you like this sort of thing?”

  “Well, ‘like’ is not quite the right word,” Haku replied. “It’s beautiful, yes. The craftsmanship is remarkable. Incredibly detailed. It records every step required to prepare for one’s death: the funeral rites, the embalming, the journey of the soul through the afterlife, and finally, the judgment by their god. It’s breathtaking in its thoroughness. Very impressive. But no, Master. I do not like it. I find it horrifying.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “Look closely, Master,” Haku said, gesturing toward the mural, “you can see it for yourself. Every figure in these murals, king or peasant, priest or soldier, follows the same path, the same process, as dictated by their god. They’re shackled to the will of their god, even in death, no, especially in death. No matter who they are, their entire lives are spent preparing for this moment. They must arrive with the correct offerings, they must speak the correct words, they must pass the trials in the correct ways. Do it exactly as prescribed, or face annihilation. If they stray, if they forget, if they displease, if they diverge by even a single step, they’ll be cast into oblivion. Someone might call that order. I call it tyranny.”

  Khenemhotep would certainly not be amused if those words reached his ears. But, to be fair, Viktor himself found it hard to disagree with the bird-man. Those rules were indeed rigid. From the outside, sure, it looked beautiful and impressive. Like some grand, dazzling, unbreakable cage etched in gold and reverence. But for those who had to live inside it, it must have felt more like suffocation.

  Or maybe... they didn’t feel it at all.

  Because, if they had been indoctrinated from birth that the chain around their neck was sacred, then they wouldn’t question it. They bowed to it, they polished it, and they put it around the necks of their children as if it were the most natural thing to do. But the moment someone who came from outside, someone who saw the chain for what it was, told them about it, cracks would begin to show. Now, they were aware that they were trapped in a prison.

  And that was exactly what had happened, wasn’t it? Nakhran, after his association with the goddess named Iseth-Ra, had gained a completely new perspective. So he denounced his god, challenged the rules, and started a rebellion. A rebellion that doomed the whole world.

  “You criticized someone else’s god,” Viktor said, glancing at Haku, “but what about yours? Does he have rules? Or do you not serve any god at all?”

  “I do have one, Master. And yes, of course, he has rules. One might say they’re strict, but mostly they’re about self-discipline. We don’t go around forcing our rules on other people. And unless someone seriously steps out of line, my lord is quite carefree.” The Tengu laughed heartily. “His name is Saru... oh, you don’t like long names, right, Master? Then let’s just call him Lord Saru. The word means ‘monkey,’ by the way.”

  A bit too carefree, Viktor thought, if his follower could casually call him “Lord Monkey.” Maybe that explained this guy’s insolent behavior.

  There was the sound of footsteps. Slow, ceremonial, and dry as aged parchment scraped over stone. From the gloom beyond the archway emerged a desiccated figure, draped in gold and bandages. Looked like the master of this hall had finally decided to grace them with his presence.

  “Sovereign of the Dungeon, my lord Sebekton,” the mummy intoned, bowing with stiff formality. “You have come seeking my tale.”

  “Yes, we have,” Viktor replied. “What were you doing out there, anyway?”

  “I have walked through the entire complex to make sure that everything, both personnel and materials, is fully prepared. So that nothing will go wrong when the moment arrives. Tell me, Sovereign of the Dungeon, do you still want the final battle to be fought within these walls?”

  “Yes, that’s still the plan. We don’t know when it would come, but we need to make damn sure we’re ready when it does. When the opportunity presents itself, we strike without hesitation. No delays, no confusion. So yes, keep your eyes open. Grow your forces, and keep the ones you’ve got in fighting shape.”

  “As you commanded, Sovereign of the Dungeon, so shall it be done.”

  Viktor glanced at the Tengu who stood beside him. “I’ve just had a chat with this fellow. What do you think of your new subordinate?” he said, wondering if there was any tension between these two. After all, Haku’s less-than-flattering opinion about the murals might not sit well with someone as devout as Khenemhotep.

  “Behold,” Khenemhotep said, raising his arms as if to invoke a sacred rite, “the followers of the Great Bright God. I am well pleased to count them among my own. For they are men of great strength and skill, also gifted with wisdom and humility. They hunger for knowledge, and their minds are opened to understanding.”

  That’s unexpectedly generous.

  Then came the bird-man’s third, and definitely not last, exaggerated bow of the day, and Khenemhotep, probably the only person in the room who didn’t think such a display was absurd, returned it with a solemn, theatrical bow of his own.

  Looks like they get along well enough.

  “Now that you’re back,” Viktor said, “shall we get on with the storytelling session?”

  “Yes, Sovereign of the Dungeon, as you will,” the ancient priest replied, gesturing toward the dais beneath his vacant throne. “Let us now begin. And you, scholar of plumes, come also and join us.”