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And here's a short excerpt from the Prologue:
Twenty-five years ago:
Eight-year-old Taggart Quinn was about to be branded.
"Boy, take off your shirt."
A fire burned in the center of the court of the convent of St. George. Embers popped and fizzled as a man in a brown robe twirled a metal rod, its tip buried in the orange heat. At the same time, he pumped a bellows with his foot, causing the coals to flare and darken. A pale-faced boy sat on a nearby step. His eyes lit with each thrust of the man's leg. A red glow crept up the shaft of the branding iron.
"Taggart!" The man's focus remained on the fire. "I said, take off your shirt."
Taggart sat frozen.
The iron clanged on cobblestone, its tip protruding from the fire. Pearl-white flecks sparked where wood clung to its starred design. The man strode to the boy, wrenched his arm up and tore the shirt over his head. Tears streamed down Taggart's cheeks. He writhed, but the man's grip was too strong to break.
Sisters looked down from the convent windows, their veils obscuring any expression.
The man dragged the boy to the center of the courtyard where the brand lay. His chant was clipped, and the iron yellowed as it cooled.
"Taggart is one of your sons, born of Geb, earth." As the man sifted dust over Taggart's bare neck the words rumbled amongst the walls. Ancient rock and ancient gods bore witness. "Taggart anoints himself with that which you anoint yourselves." Water dribbled from a wineskin onto Taggart's shoulder. "He lives on that on which you live." The man waited until Taggart drew a stifled breath of air.
Taggart twisted with new urgency. This was a baptism by the four natural elements. The final element of Taggart's baptism remained: Fire.
The man picked up the brand and the walls of the fortress of Babylon garbled the chant.
* * * *
To the South of the Coptic fortress, neighboring Muslims eavesdropped from cracked concrete apartments. The kilns of potters baking urns and polychrome plates shouldered the Eastern fortifications, and the forges of the tinkers shouldered the Western battlements, their workshops ever ready to repair an unending stream of tools and wagon axles. To the North, within a vast necropolis of shadowy tombs, lay the dead.
Firelight flickered against the sandstone walls of the enclave of Coptic Cairo, a bright star in the dark. The light from the fire fell short of the domed Church of St. George, and the Hanging Church's towers-the bosom of Coptic power. Narrow, cobbled alleys connected the Hanging Church to the churches of St. Barbara and, finally, to Abu Sarga. There in Abu Sarga, where Jesus had sheltered, pigeons cooed in the branches of the courtyard's gnarled sycamore. Lamplight wavered in the window of a nearby apartment.
Leaning against the Sycamore, Elen smelled the jasmine in her daughter's black hair. She listened to the muted chanting, and continued to trace the network of veins that ran up her daughter's neck and cheek.
"Mommy," Samiya twisted in Elen's lap, "Why was I chosen?" It was not the first time she had asked, but both understood it would be the last.
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