Cursed Times - Only Yesterday! Sequel to Wattys 2015 winner!

Chapter 7 - Metjen: Dripping

'But you cannot see the first prophet now. His Wisdom will expect you to wait, and then it is the hour for his prayers... .'

Metjen thrust his face at the other priest who backtracked a couple of steps as if facing a rabid dog. 'Stop this shit. Ass dung I mean. Either the first prophet wishes to speak to me or he doesn't. In that case, I have more important things to do.'

'And what would those be?' An unguent voice dripped venom from the direction of the temple courtyard, just as Ptahmes, the high priest's hatchet man, shimmered into visibility in front of the nearest column. Metjen ground his teeth and inclined his head.

The second prophet waved at his inferior who had thrown himself to the floor. 'Go brother, I will ensure that this one does his duty.' With a determined wheeze, the third ranker picked himself off the floor and scurried towards the pillars.

Ptahmes faced Metjen with an inscrutable expression on his face. 'You might find your ways are not appreciated here.'

'I share your concern. Does his wisdom want me now or not?'

'You go, Golden One. Our first prophet awaits you in his audience chamber. He will not wait much longer.' A smirk briefly marred Ptahmes' impassive features, before he went invisible again.

Metjen hated it when they did that, as it gave him no chance for a comeback. There was an additional problem. Despite his contempt for the guy, he still was a prophet. One, who had just vanished on a less than optimistic remark.

Once more, he thought of Iseret. At one point, she too had been decidedly concerned about his long-term prospects in terms of health and prosperity. Since then, his chances had apparently not improved by much.

Metjen straightened and crossed the oversized portal. He made his way through holy half-light, passing more pillars and a maze of walls covered in hieroglyphs until he reached the tower with the flying bridges. Having willed one of the airborne platforms towards him, he stepped on the slatted dark wood, drew on his sun-flow and pushed his hands down his sides. The bridge slowly tilted downwards, in the process unfolding a set of treads which he descended. His mobile staircase landed next to one of the many apertures giving the tower a honeycomb structure like empty kernels on a corncob.

Metjen disembarked, mind-called the next platform and repeated the process a couple of times until he reached the last opening perched straight above the golden glow that protected the bowels of the temple.

Not from people with his skills.

Metjen jangled the amulets customs forced him to wear. Most other priests sought safety by even carrying divine power stored in their charms; he, however, felt like a magical hedgehog, spiked with spells as he was. So much easier to contain the power in one's body. Assuming one was capable of doing that and most of his fellow servants were not.

He called another bridge and descended through the glitter until he hit rock bottom. Or rather-an alabaster corridor flanked by the private apartments of the resident high priest. Why the guy would want to hunker down here was beyond Metjen's understanding given the distance between these underground apartments and the divinity of light their occupant was supposed to be serving. Maybe the prophet sought closeness to the holiest of the holies, the statues of their god, which happened to be down here as well.

Whatever his high priest's motivation-that shrine of Ra Metjen had started his career in had made him weary of underground spaces. He strode towards the shining bronze door at the other end, then hesitated. Normally, this place would be guarded better than Fort Knox.

This time the corridor was devoid of anybody capable of weaving a spell on behalf of the good prophet. Or even waving a spear in his general direction. Was it possible that Ptahmes was playing a practical joke on him?