The Bone-Setter's Daughter

Chapter 3

The blood-magic of Heka coursed through the veins of the men of Egypt. They began to compare themselves to the Star-dwellers, the gods who came from the star Sirius to raise us to megalithic heights from our damp caves. The gods were not pleased. Ra ordered his daughter Sekhmet- a woman born of the womb of an Egyptian but whose blood carried the full magic of the stars- to punish the Egyptians for their impudence. And so Sekhmet did. She brought a cataclysm so horrible upon Egypt that all of mankind nearly perished. To slake her fury, Ra sent a flood of ochre-dyed beer. Drunk on the aftermath of her bloodlust as much as the flood itself, Sekhmet retreated, and left mankind to rebuild. Our blood-magic, however, never returned to what it once was.

-Aki-Amun's Papyrus of Histories

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Tension crackles through the air. I taste it against my tongue, feel it buzz across my skin. It is so thick it is almost visible, although my eyes are still closed. I blink them open, trying to orient myself.

Before I can so much as turn my head, my father has swept me up into his lean arms and has buried my face into the crook of his neck.

"What happened?" I ask. The muscles of my lips, jaw and tongue move sluggishly, struggling to form those two simple words. I remember Bak, his horrific injury, his cries of pain. "Bak! Is Bak alright?" I demand, pushing myself back from my father's embrace. My muscles barely cooperate with the motion.

"I'm here, I'm fine," Bak says, and I turn towards the sound of his voice. My father's hands remain on my arms, reluctant to let me go.

My mouth drops open.

"Your leg-" I begin, and then stop, speechless. I can feel that my eyes have widened to the size of the disc of Ra, my mouth hangs open with shock.

Bak is standing.

His leg is smooth, brown, unblemished save for a faint, jagged, silvery scar.

"How-?" I begin, and then stop, looking to my father. He cups my cheeks with both of his long-fingered hands.

"Blood-magic," he whispers. The words sound sacred as they leave his lips. "True, deep, ancient blood-magic."

"But Papa- there isn't any blood-magic like that left in Egypt, not anymore. The priests say that magic that strong hasn't existed since Ra sent the flood of blood, eight-thousand years ago. They say that Sekhmet took it from us as a punishment for our disrespect to the gods. They say..."

"I know all they say, Mayet." My father interrupts me. "But how else would you explain the healing of such a wound?

"I am a better wabau than most, and my incantations are considered strong, by both my peers and the priests. Renowned, even. But a thousand men of my skill joined together could not accomplish such a feat."

I swallow hard, my gaze riveted to Bak's thigh. Were it not for the slight, shiny ripple of a scar, it would seem as though he had never been injured, had never fallen from the roof.

"How did you do it?" Papa asks me, and I blink.

"Me?" I ask, stupefied.

"A-at said that you were muttering things in a tongue she has never heard, and that his wound glowed golden when you touched him."

"It's true," A-at says, and I turn to her, see that she stares at me in the way people gaze at a seer. With veneration, with awe, with a touch of fear. "The bone moved back into place, and the wound knit itself back together before my eyes."