The Infallible Girl

by Sarsarsar

This fic details Isis' journey from the Tomb to Battle City. "Isis cut her deck at random. She didn't need the Torc to predict which card was revealed. "Blast Held by a Tribute." The card graphic depicted a figure prepared to sacrifice itself to the opponent's monster and then burn for the sake of victory. It was prepared to give up everything for its family. And so was she."

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Choices and the Chosen

With trembling hands that she hoped went unnoticed, Isis passed her first month's rent to the landlord. The sound as she tore the check out of the book seemed to echo around the dingy office. He held it up to the light to test its validity and stamped it. Thanks to the Torc she knew he'd accept it but she still felt nervous. This was the first time she had ever purchased anything with money that was legitimately hers, money she hadn't had to beg for, steal, or scam off of anyone. To Isis, it represented her first small step back into a life of dignity.

"And you promise you're over eighteen?" the landlord asked once again. While sun and stress and general street life had aged Isis beyond her years, she still had the petite frame and wide eyes of a young girl. "Yes, sir," she said, keeping her voice level and deep. In the grand scheme of things, it was only a small lie, especially compared to the myriad deception she had woven to reach this point. The landlord shrugged and handed her two keys; one for her door and one for her mail locker in the lobby. She took the keys, smiled, and began the long trek up the stairs to her eighth-floor walk-up. It would be her first true shelter in almost two years. As soon as she was out of view of the lobby her steady gate turned into a dash. She ascended the stairs two, sometimes three at a time. Twice she nearly turned her ankle as her unfamiliar heels snagged on the moth-eaten stair runner.

Finally, she arrived at the top floor, home to the smallest and cheapest units of the already low-quality apartment complex. The walk down the hall to her door was nearly intoxicating. The streets of Cairo were teeming with life, but it was the hustle and bustle of the public. Up here the scents and sounds of intimacy wafted through the air and threatened to overtake her. It was equal parts alienating and familiar; a reminder of the life she had lost and yet so vastly different than the life she had recently been leading. Isis lingered briefly by one door from which she could hear children at play and smell roasting vegetables. She longed to enter that door.

Isis opened her own door slowly. There was a moment of irrational alarm when her key stuck in the lock but the elderly bolts soon gave way. She stepped inside wondering what she would find. One reason the apartment was so cheap was that she'd had to accept it sight unseen. Isis had somehow been in the right place at the right time to negotiate an illegal sublet offer from Hiram, the previous tenant, who needed to leave the city in a rush. If she was willing to pay her first month in advance and pretend to be the man's cousin so as to evade suspicion of subletting, the place was hers at cost. The only catch was that the tenant had what he called "sensitive materials" (drugs, supplied the Torc) that he didn't want "a bright young woman to be bothered with" (no witnesses, supplied her own common sense) and so was unable to show her the place first. Time was of the essence and he needed an answer immediately. They shook hands. She would move in the following afternoon.

Isis had been tempted to use the Torc to see the apartment but managed to restrain herself. Only for necessity, only for necessity, she repeated like a mantra. She had used it that morning to secure her position at the museum. She had used it to run into Hiram after his important "business meeting." She had used to make sure that Hiram's business would not put her on the wrong side of the law if she accepted the apartment. It was necessary to know these things. Using it to see the apartment interior felt like an abuse of power, and she knew all too well where that path led. Thus it was with curiosity that she entered her new home for the first time.

It was small; just one room and a restroom. There was a kitchenette in the far corner that included a sink and a small stove. The only delineation between it and the living room was a jagged line where the carpet had been inexpertly ripped away to reveal the concrete floor beneath. Either Hiram had moved all of his furniture out with him or the apartment had been solely for the purpose of storing his illicit merchandise. The room was completely bare. Dust motes filled the air and shimmered in the afternoon sunlight.

Isis gently placed her duffel bag and briefcase, the sum total of all her worldly possessions, on the floor. Next, she kicked off her pumps and took a ginger step onto the industrial grey-brown carpet. It was stained and frayed in multiple places but after walking barefoot for almost two years and then spending a day in pleather heels it felt more luxurious underfoot than she had dared to imagine. She shuffled her feet back and forth, savoring the texture of the carpet fibers against her aching soles.

She took off her blazer and Oxford shirt, taking care not to undo any of the strategically placed safety pins. It had been so hard to find the right position to give her the illusion of hips and she didn't want to bother with it again if she could help it. Next, she unzipped the pencil skirt and unpinned the fabric scraps from the front and sides of her shorts and longed for a day when she would not have to create the illusion of being a healthy weight. Where once stood a professional young woman now was a half-starved, seventeen-year-old girl wearing a yellowing t-shirt and a pair of children's bike shorts.

After hanging her work clothes on the doorknob Isis took a lap around the room, taking care to test the security of the locks, the state of the bathroom's plumbing, and the condition of the stove. Everything seemed to be in working order. Much to her delight she even found a cracked full-length mirror on the inside of the bathroom door. More out of habit than necessity she gave the Torc a mental nudge and picked up on no immediate threats. For the first time since she had made the mistake of taking Malik outside, Isis was absolutely safe. In this place, at this time, she did not have to watch over her shoulder. She did not have to poise herself to flee. She did not have to pretend to be older and wiser than she was. And, she realized with a jolt, she did not have to wear the Torc.

The prospect of taking the Torc off was simultaneously terrifying and invigorating. Over the last two years, it had been her only ally. The Torc had provided for her, guided her steps, and kept her safe. Isis thought that to be without those powers now would feel similar to going suddenly blind. On the other hand, the Torc was a heavy burden to bear. Aside from the mental strain that came from using its gifts it also carried the weight of its sacred past and the pull of its impending future. Sometimes she imagined herself as its prisoner, trapped in the confines of the present, guided by its will and not her own.

Despite her reservations, the urge to gain even a brief moment of freedom from the Torc was too much for Isis to ignore. With trembling fingers, Isis unclasped the Torc for the first time in two years. It occurred to her that since she had never taken it off, and before leaving home had not been allowed near it alone, she had never really examined it closely. She turned it around in her hands a few times and cringed when she saw a few strands of her hair stuck in the clasp and a sweaty film in the crevice on the back of the Wadjet Eye. Millennium Item or not, it was still a piece of jewelry that had been worn without removal for far too long. Isis made a mental note to clean it before starting work.

She put the Torc reverentially onto her kitchen counter. She had no idea what breaking physical contact with it would do and braced herself for anything from a burst of power, to strange visions, to fatigue. It was almost anticlimactic when nothing happened. The Wadjet Eye gazed benignly up at her and put her in mind of a dog waiting for a command from its owner. "Good… girl?" she mumbled and then smiled sheepishly at the childishness of talking to the Torc like it was her pet. It had not been very dignified.

But it had felt good.

It had been a long time since Isis had acted her age, and now in the confines of her little apartment, she could. And why not? Even in the Tomb, she hadn't acted like the child that she was. After her mother's death, she and Rishid had essentially become Malik's surrogate parents. Isis' first concrete memory was of that night. Though she was only three at the time, the sounds of her mother's suffering had been branded deep inside of her. She had stood with Rishid, both of them so helpless, while her father had tended the birth. At one point her father had run out of the hall and returned with the Millennium Rod, knife unsheathed. Her mother had immediately fallen silent, her expression of pain replaced by a passive smile. Then her father used the knife…

Halima, a longtime Ishtar family servant and Malik's nurse, had explained later that her brother had come out feet-first, and when that happens the only way to save the mother and child was to cut the child out. She swore to Isis that her father had been trying to save everyone the only way he knew how. Halima had also told her not to blame Malik for their mother's death. Isis had simply nodded. The truth was that blaming Malik had never occurred to her. Even as a child Isis had understood that he hadn't come out backward on purpose. When she thought about that night all she could remember was her father, happier than she had ever seen him before or since, dashing away with Malik and leaving their mother to bleed to death. If he ever grieved the loss of his wife, Isis had not seen it.

At first their father had tried to involve himself in their lives. Or at least he tried to involve himself in Malik's life. He mostly ignored Isis, checking in sporadically to ensure that she was keeping up with her studies. Rishid had been demoted from son to servant. Isis' mother had treated Rishid so much like her own that Isis had been shocked when her father told her that he was not actually her brother, and therefore not to be treated as such. While Isis and Rishid faded into the background, their father doted on Malik.

This attention lasted for about five years. It soon became apparent that Malik was not the perfectly devoted student that their father had envisioned. Instead of listening patiently to the reading of sacred texts, Malik would fidget and make up his own nonsensical stories about the historical figures. Malik avoided the inner holy chambers of the Tomb in favor of the entry way and light well. He seemed to crave attention from Isis and Rishid over somber meditation. To put it bluntly, their father was dismayed to discover that Malik was, indeed, a normal child. The breaking point came when, at six-years-old, their father decided it was time to tell Malik about the Tomb Keepers' Initiation. He had expected his son to be eager to embrace his sacred heritage. Instead, Malik had his first anxiety attack. Their father's relationship with Malik soon turned from one of a hopeful and loving mentor to an exasperated task master.

As her father grew older he began to involve himself less and less with their family. He spent most of his time deep in his chambers or in the room where the Torc and Rod were kept, only interacting with his children when he absolutely had to. Thus it had fallen on Isis to instruct the servants, manage the food coming into the tomb, and generally ensure that their day-to-day lives operated smoothly.

She had not needed the Millennium Torc to see what her future held; she knew that her father was wasting away, if not physically then certainly mentally, and would soon leave her to run the Tomb entirely. Instead of joining the outer clan and helping provide for the central clan, which was the traditional job of the female heirs, she would have to stay and look after her brother. Even after she found a wife for him she still didn't think she would trust Malik to manage things without her. Theoretically, Rishid could take that role over for her but she knew that her adoptive brother's love for Malik would make him too easy to manipulate.

Isis understood her fate and begrudgingly accepted it. However, before resigning herself to a life of darkness, she had decided to spend one more day in the light. Oh, she told Rishid and Malik and even herself that it was for him, that she'd had to be talked into it, that she was doing it against her will, but it was all lies. She wanted to feel the sun on her skin, and the wind in her hair, and walk the streets of the bazaar on her own without the weight of responsibility and unaccompanied by a family member (Malik didn't count. All older siblings know that younger siblings don't count.). Malik had simply been a convenient excuse. That hour was supposed to have been the last moment of childish freedom for the rest of her life.

In the following nights, she often lay awake replaying the situation in her mind. What if she had paid more attention to the servants as they operated the doors and had known about the hidden alarm? What if they hadn't walked all the way into the village and had just explored the ruins instead? What if she had intercepted Malik before he claimed the Millennium Rod? What if she hadn't been a selfish little brat? Malik had been the one to kill their father but Isis put the blame squarely on herself. She had manipulated him into going outside. She had betrayed her family's sacred duty, her father's trust, and her brothers' souls.

She remembered waking up to the glow of candlelight. In the sleepy haze before her consciousness fully returned, she had stretched her limbs out and enjoyed the warmth on her skin. It had been a beautiful few minutes. The illusion was shattered the instant she opened her eyes. The first thing she saw was blood spattered over her tunic. Except for a scraped knee and a dull headache she seemed to have no injuries. It was not her blood. She reached behind her to use the floor as a brace to stand. Instead of hard stone, her hand landed on something yielding and sticky. Cold dread began to spread through her. She remembered the past year when she had accidentally spilled stew over a sacred text. The sensation of iced fear she felt when telling her father about her mistake and awaiting punishment paled in comparison to this. Isis knew whose blood she had woken up in. The last thing she remembered before losing consciousness was Malik lunging for the Millennium Rod. Such insolence would surely garner a terrible punishment, the worst thing that could happen to Malik without physically harming him. She was certain that what her hand now rested on was Rishid's body. Slowly Isis turned to face her older brother.

From as far back as Isis could remember she had never had a particularly good relationship with her father. Even so, the sight of his mangled body crushedher.

"F-Father?" she said, her voice shaking. He was laying on his stomach, leaving his back exposed. It had been completely flayed away. "Father?" she said again, louder and more firmly this time. If it was just a torn back, he could be alright, she told herself. His back had been torn up before and he survived. So had Malik. She grabbed his shoulder and attempted to roll him over. It took a few tries. Her father was much heavier than she had expected and the still-fresh blood prevented her from getting a good grip. With a final heave she managed to turn him over. In her panic it never occurred to Isis that, had her father been alive, putting all of his weight on his shredded back would have been a terrible idea. But it didn't matter. The deep puncture wound over his heart told Isis that he was gone.

Fighting the urge to break down entirely, Isis staggered to her feet. Her father's blood was still bright red meaning that the atrocity had been committed recently. And where were Malik and Rishid? What if the murderer was after them, too? She remembered the man from the village. It had to have been him. He must be an enemy of the Pharaoh seeking to destroy his servants. That meant that her brothers were in mortal danger as well. She could see a trail of bloody footsteps leading out of the Millenniumchamber, up the stairs, and into the light. Isis followed the trail dreading what she would find. As she ran a fragment of memory came back to her. Just before fainting she remembered hearing a cracked, malicious voice; the voice of the murderer.

She burst outside expecting to see her brothers mangled like her father and the strange man laughing at their demise. Instead, she found Malik and Rishid sitting on a stone slab a few yards away from the Tomb's entrance. Malik was breathing heavily like he'd just had one of his anxiety attacks and Rishid was trying to sooth him.

"Breathe, breathe, breathe," her older brother was chanting. "There you go. Just breathe." Malik nodded, but then gasped and started shaking again.

"Quick, what's seven times eighteen?" Rishid asked.

"One hundred and twenty-six," Malik stuttered after a brief pause.

"Good, that's right. Now, who was the first known Pharaoh?" Rishid continued.

Isis had seen this routine many times before. She and Rishid had discovered that the best way to calm Malik during an anxiety attack was to make him focus on other things. This familiar scene caused Isis to be overtaken with relief to the point of delirium. Despite everything she found herself laughing as she dashed over. Without hesitation, she flung her arms around both of them. Instead of returning her embrace like she expected, Rishid recoiled with a pained groan and Malik pushed her away.

"Don't touch him!" Malik yelled. "Can't you see he's hurt, foolish girl?!"

Sure enough from up close Isis could see that Rishid's back almost as bad as their father's. Already flies were beginning to hover around him. Her misguided hug had smeared her forearm with blood. "Sorry!" she gasped. "What happened? Was it the stranger? Where is he?" She looked between the two of them, desperate for answers.

"No," Malik answered, his voice trembling. "It was Father."

Isis shuddered. Punishment had been dealt after all. "I'm sorry Rishid," she said. "It's my fault."

"Don't worry, Miss Isis," he said. "I am fine."

Isis doubted that he was truly fine, but there would be time to atone later. Currently, there were more pressing issues to address. "So who… who did that to Father?"

"The stranger."

"The Pharaoh!"

Both of her brothers' answers were blurted out almost before Isis had finished the question. Rishid's response was calm to the point of being rehearsed. Malik's response was frenzied and bordered on panic. She looked from one to the other trying to figure out where to start. As she took them in Isis noticed something she had previously overlooked. Lying innocuously between them on the slab was the Millennium Rod. As she stared at it a fly landed on the sheath and began to explore.

She reached out to take the Rod but Malik snatched it up and clutched it possessively to his chest. The fly drifted away from the Rod and landed on Isis' bloodied tunic.

"Ah, what a good instinct to protect the sacred Items," Rishid said after an uncomfortable pause. "But I think, Master Malik, that you should let your sister see it." His tone was light and reassuring, but Isis could sense an undertow of fear.

"Yes," she said quickly, trying to match Rishid's calm tenor. "You've done such a good job of protecting it. Why don't you let me worry about it for now?"

With a look of extreme uncertainty, Malik passed the Rod to Isis. "Thank you," she said with false cheerfulness and tugged the knife about an inch out of the sheath. It was hard to hide her disgust when she saw the browning blood that coated it. She had found the murder weapon and it didn't add up. If it had been the stranger who killed their father with the Millennium Rod then how had Rishid and Malik, an unarmed young man and a child, been able to get it away from him?

The words 'foolish girl' replayed in Isis' mind. That's what Malik had called her when she'd accidentally touched Rishid's wounds. It's what her father called her when she disappointed him. She had never heard Malik use the expression until moments ago and now it was bothering her. And since when had he been so protective of the Millennium Rod? Up until that day Malik had been afraid of it. And… had he just said the Pharaoh killed their father?

Isis glanced over to Rishid who quickly averted his eyes. "Why don't… why don't you tell me what happened down there, Malik?" she asked, trying to keep her tone easy. "All I remember is walking down the stairs and then I think I fainted. Could you please fill me in?"

Rishid cut in before Malik had a chance to answer. "Please, let me," he said, the fear now more prominent in his voice. "Malik had quite an ordeal and I don't think we should make him relive it so soon." Malik sat silently, his eyes transfixed on the Millennium Rod in Isis' hands.

"Very well," conceded Isis. She wanted to hear Malik's version of events but Rishid had a point. The last thing they needed was for Malik to break down. Still, she had the feeling that there was something her brothers, or at least Rishid, did not want her to know.

"It was a man with the Millennium Ankh. Malik says you saw him in the village. He must have followed you home. He pushed you into the wall and you passed out. Then he used the Ankh to overpower Master Ishtar and steal the Millennium Rod, and then the stranger killed him." As he spoke Rishid maintained the same rehearsed calmness he used to answer her before.

"Then what?" Isis asked. "That can't be all he did. Did he say why he was doing this? Or attack you, or go after the Torc?"

"No. He just vanished. Malik started to panic and I thought it best to take him away from the… from Master Ishtar."

Isis stared at her older brother for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. None of what he had just said made any sense. Why would someone kill the patriarch of the Tomb Keepers and run away without killing the rest of his lineage or taking the Millennium Items? Even a common thief wouldn't have left without stealing something. How had he just vanished?

"Rishid," Isis began calmly. "I don't understand. He just killed Father and left?"

"I'm telling you all that I know," Rishid insisted, though she noticed that he still would not look directly at her. "It doesn't make sense to me either, but that's what-"

"He was working for the Pharaoh."

Isis and Rishid froze. The fact that Malik had interrupted was not remotely surprising, but his time was different from his usual emotional outbursts. Malik's voice was low, almost a whisper, and seemed to be void of emotion. In any case, for him to settle down so quickly after a panic attack was unheard of. His eyes were still transfixed on the Millennium Rod and it seemed as if he was addressing it rather than his siblings.

"Isis, you heard what he said in the village. 'This is the will of the Pharaoh,'" Malik continued. "And after he killed Father, he told me that I had taken my first steps down the dark road of the Pharaoh. The Pharaoh wanted father dead."

"No, that can't be right," Isis said, though she too had heard the stranger in the village and been alarmed by his words. "He's probably just a regular man who was overcome by the Millennium Ankh. You know the Millennium Items can corrupt the unworthy." As she spoke, Isis could feel herself relaxing. Yes, that made perfect sense! Their father had warned them many times about the dangers of using the Millennium Items irresponsibly. If an Item judged its user unfit it could draw out the darkness hidden deep within them. There were even cryptic tales that suggested certain Millennium Items could possess even the purest hearted users.

Yet something in her subconscious was fighting to make itself known.

"Yes!" Rishid chimed in a little too enthusiastically. "That must be it! Some poor man must have gotten ahold of the Millennium Ankh and was driven to madness by it. You know the Items are attracted to each other. It was probably pulling him to the Rod and the Torc. It probably put that stuff about the Pharaoh into his mind. It must have meant it was the will of the Pharaoh for all the Millennium Items to be united. And the Ankh allows you to see into souls. When the man, or the Ankh maybe, realized that it had killed a guardian of the Items it knew it had made a mistake and fled!"

His words came pouring out in a jumble. All her life Isis had known Rishid to be thoughtful and subdued while Malik was emotional and impulsive. Now it seemed as if her brothers were trading personalities. She tried to convince herself that their sudden change in demeanor was the result of shock, but something felt more deeply off.

Whatever was fighting for her attention seemed to struggle harder.

"Yes," she conceded after Rishid came to a stop. "That does seem likely." Isis sighed and sank to the ground. So much had happened in such a short time that she had not yet been able to process all of it. She stared mutely at the sand for a moment and twirled the Millennium Rod absentmindedly in her hands. "I should probably clean this," she said softly, though the idea of unsheathing the blade and dealing with the blood nauseated her. There was a sudden weight on her shoulder. Expecting to see Rishid, she looked up. Instead, Malik was standing over her, his hand resting on her shoulder. "I will clean it. It is my responsibility now." His voice was still uncharacteristically soft, but his expression was back to something close to normal.

"I suppose so," Isis said and began to hand the Rod over to him. As Malik reached for the Rod, Isis realized what had been vying for her attention. The last thing she could remember seeing before losing consciousness was Malik seizing the Millennium Rod and pointing it at their father. That part of the confrontation had been suspiciously absent from Rishid's account. Maybe he hadn't mentioned Malik taking the Millennium Rod because he knew that Isis had been awake when it happened. She desperately wanted to believe that was true, but Rishid's evasive behavior was too much to ignore.

She quickly tugged the Rod away from Malik and held it out of his reach. "Wait," she said, trying to keep her face neutral. "Why don't I take care of it? You've been through so much today. I don't think you should have to deal with this right now."

A brief flicker of anger crossed Malik's face but it was gone in an instant. He plopped down beside Isis and buried his face in his hands. "Yeah… yeah, you're right," he sighed, his voice slightly muffled. He leaned so that Isis was supporting his weight. "My head hurts so much," he said as he pressed his cheek to her shoulder. "I think the stranger did something to me with the Millennium Ankh, but I don't remember what. Isis, I'm so tired."

Isis wrapped her arm around him and looked back at Rishid. He still seemed unable to look directly at her. She was sure he was withholding something. "I think something happened to me, too. I can barely remember anything after walking down the stairs," she said softly.

"Me too!" Malik looked up at her with an expression bordering on relief. "The last thing I remember was seeing father hurting Rishid, and then the next thing I know father was… he was in my arms… and the stranger said…" Malik trailed off. His eyes had filled with tears. "I took his earrings." He tucked his hair behind his ears and showed Isis the earrings. "One fell off and for some reason I couldn't leave them. I don't know why but it felt important."

Isis smiled as her little brother jabbered on. This was more like him. She was still unnerved by Rishid's behavior, but at least one of her siblings was acting normally. She wrapped her other arm around Malik and hugged him tightly. This time he returned the gesture without protest. "I'm sorry," she sighed. "I'm so sorry."

They sat like that for a while. She had half hoped that Rishid would join them, but he remained on the stone slab. At some point, Malik had started to cry and Isis fought back the urge to join him. There would be time to mourn later. Now she had to focus on taking care of her family and figuring out what was going on. After a few minutes, she relaxed her grip and began to rise.

"The sun is setting," she observed. Malik nodded his understanding. Underground the time of day had never really factored into their lives, but out here she knew it was important. Even in the desert, the night could bring dangerously cold temperatures and, especially in ruins like this, certain unsavory characters looking for artifacts to sell.

"What are we going to do now?" Malik asked, looking from Isis to Rishid for answers.

Isis wished that she had the answers but she wasn't even sure she knew all that had happened. She had no idea where to start. "Tomorrow is resupply day," Isis answered. "The servants will be here. They'll figure out what to do."

"That sounds like the best plan," Rishid said, though his voice was uncertain.

Malik nodded. "I guess so," he conceded. "But where will we stay until then?"

"Inside," Isis answered. "Where else would we stay?" As she answered, she felt Malik tense up beside her. His breathing became shallow.

"I don't want to go back inside," he said, his voice edged with anxiety. "I can't go back in the dark, Isis. I don't want to go!"

"Maybe we could try the village?" Rishid cut in. "I don't know if facing Master Ishtar's remains would be good for Malik. Maybe there's somewhere else we could stay."

Isis looked incredulously at her older brother. "If the servants discover father dead and us missing, they will assume the worst. There will be horrible consequences to pay. Rishid, you of all people should know that." She could not fathom how, even beset by fear and grief, Rishid could possibly suggest that. "If they even knew how long Malik has already been outside they might reject him as Tomb Keeper, or worse. They would certainly punish him."

"But I don't want to be Tomb Keeper!" Malik shouted. "Let them reject me! I don't want it!" Isis could tell he was on the verge of a breakdown. She put her hands on his shoulders and tried to calm him. Rishid leaped off the slab and began to rub Malik's back soothingly.

"I know, I know," Isis said in as gentle of a voice as she could. "But we can't stay out here, you know we can't. And who knows, maybe they'll let Rishid take over." This was false. Isis knew that family tradition dictated that the role of Tomb Keeper must be passed from father to son. The family would never allow Rishid to assume that responsibility. It was a lie, but it seemed to calm Malik. He turned and looked at the tomb entrance reluctantly. Rishid put his hand on Malik's shoulder and began to guide him towards the stairs. He still seemed anxious, but willing to walk without much urging. Isis scooped up the Millennium Rod and joined them.

"Anyway," she continued as they reached the concealed tomb doors. "We can't leave the sacred texts and Millennium Items unattended. Could you imagine what would happen if a grave robber found them? No matter what happens, we have to serve the Pharaoh."

Years later Isis would remember it as the most stupid thing she had ever said.

Malik froze at the top of the staircase, causing Rishid and Isis to stumble into him. It felt like running into a wall of iron. "No," he hissed. "We do not."

Malik turned to face his siblings. The glow of the setting sun cast strange shadows over his face. "You heard what the stranger said. It was the will of the Pharaoh that our father should die. He did this to us. I will not serve him. Not ever again."

Isis heard Rishid's breathing quicken. "Master Malik," he began, trying and failing to sound calm. "That's not true. The stranger was possess-"

"No! All our lives, all our family, everyone has been serving the Pharaoh for three thousand years! We did everything for him, we gave up everything, and how does he repay us?! He kills our father!" Malik's voice had changed from a whisper to an infuriated roar. Tears began to stream down his cheeks. Isis had seen Malik have several bad anxiety attacks. The night before the Ritual had been horrible. She'd sat up all night with Malik as he'd cried and hyperventilated. But as terrible as that had been, she had never seen anything like this. She had never seen Malik so enraged before.

"B-brother," she stuttered. "You don't know what you're talking a-" She was cut off as Rishid clamped his hand over her mouth.

"Hush," he hissed in her ear. "If you don't stop talking you'll end up like Master Ishtar." Isis watched in mute horror as Malik, still raging, sank to his knees and clutched at his head.

"I will not go into the dark again! Not for him!" Malik roared, oblivious to his siblings.

Isis wrenched Rishid's hand away from her mouth and pushed him away. "Malik!" she yelled with as much authority as she could muster. "Stand up! You are better than this! Look at me!"

Through tears Malik turned to look at his sister, but instead of meeting her gaze his eyes fell upon the Millennium Rod clutched at her side. His sobbing and shaking instantly ceased. His eyes, which seemed to glow purple in the twilight, narrowed. Another wave of recollection washed over Isis. She remembered seeing dull, narrowed eyes glaring at her before losing consciousness. Somehow his sudden calmness was more concerning than his rage. "That's mine," he said in a hoarse whisper. "Give it back, Isis."

Technically, Malik was right. Now that their father was dead, the Rod was rightfully his. But in his frenzied state, Isis was sure that giving him the Rod was a bad idea. What was more, Rishid's remark about ending up like her father had not gone amiss. A horrible suspicion about what had truly happened in the tomb crept over her. The memory of Malik diving for the Millennium Rod, the wild-eyed stare, the cracked voice of the murderer… the contorted face of her brother.

"No." Isis tried so hard to sound firm but she could feel the tremble in her voice. "You're too upset. I'm keeping it for now."

She put the Millennium Rod behind her back forcing Malik to finally meet her gaze. While the eyes Isis stared into were not the wild eyes she remembered from earlier, they weren't quite her brother's either. His usual expression of excitable curiosity was replaced with a look of calculating anger. This was not the first time Isis had seen Malik this way. Since receiving the Tomb Keeper's Initiation two years previous she had noticed his disposition becoming gradually darker.

"But sister, think about it," he hissed. "What if the stranger was telling the truth? What if the Pharaoh did want all of this to happen?"

Isis shook her head. "No, that can't be true and you know it."

"Even if he didn't want our father to die it hardly excuses him. We have worked so hard to preserve his secrets. For three thousand years we have rotted in the dark while he has rested. And for what? When he comes back do you think he'll repay us for the thousands of years we've suffered for him? What could he give us that could possibly make up for it all?"

The words seemed to flow from him too smoothly. It was obvious to both Isis and Rishid that this was not the first time these ideas had occurred to Malik; it was simply the first time he voiced them so openly.

"Master," Rishid said softly. "I know your pain. I promise I do." He raised a hand to the scars on his face. "You are not alone. I share your destiny and-"

"Silence Rishid! It's not the same, you fool. I never asked you to do that! It was your own stupid decision," Malik spat.

"Malik!" gasped Isis, now outraged herself. "How dare you talk to our brother like that?!" Typically all it took was a look from Rishid to settle Malik when he was acting out. Even at his absolute worst Malik had never been so cruel.

"I did this for you," Rishid said. His voice was still soothing but it was obvious from his expression that Malik's vindictiveness had hurt him. "It may have been stupid, but I do not regret it. No matter what I will never let you walk alone. I will follow whichever path you choose."

For a second it appeared as if Malik was going to further insult Rishid, but words seemed to fail him in the face of his brother's selflessness. "Yes," he sighed instead. "You deserve better." Perhaps he's not too far gone, Isis thought. Malik turned to face her again. "And you deserve better, too, sister."

Isis was about to protest, but Malik cut her off before she could start. "Isis, we have two Millennium Items. Imagine what we could do with them. Father never used them except to punish us. He let them go to waste. But if I used the Rod and you used the Torc, think of how we could live."

Isis gaped at her brother. "What on earth are you talking about? We can't just-" she gestured vaguely, words temporarily forgotten due to the insanity of Malik's suggestion, "just use them, just because we want to. Father taught us-"

"What he taught us was foolish. If he had used the Millennium Torc, he would still be alive now."

Isis' rebuttal died in her mouth. Malik was right. She had never once seen her father use the Torc. If he had checked it, even occasionally, he could have prevented his own murder, stopped Malik from getting bitten by the cobra, and foreseen their mother's death. Anger flared within her at that thought, but Isis pushed it back down. There would be time to face her pain later.

"I know father seemed… lax in his duties," she conceded. "You will not make the same mistakes. You will be better than him."

"I already am." Malik's eyes seemed to glimmer as he spoke. "I am better because, unlike him, I will not be a willing slave to a Pharaoh I have never met." His lips quirked into a grin and caused the shadows to dance eerily across his face. "I have an idea."

Seeing Malik's face distorted in darkness gave Isis another disconcerting wave of memory from earlier that day. They were becoming sharper now. She could recall the veins on his temples pulsing and the way his posture had somehow become angular and rangy. Even his hair had seemed disheveled though there had been no breeze underground. Isis was now almost certain that it was Malik who had killed their father. Likewise, she was sure Rishid knew and was lying about it to protect him, but from whom? Even if her brother had done the unthinkable, there was no way Isis could harm him and she was sure Rishid knew it. Neither would the servants. As the only living heir, Malik's life was too valuable to risk. That left only one person, the person Rishid had sworn to protect from anything and everything.

Malik had never been good at hiding his feelings and even worse at lying despite how hard he tried. His siblings could always tell when he'd done something wrong by the look on his face alone. An important aspect of the outside excursion plot had been keeping Malik as far away from their father as possible for several days following their trip. Before discovering the hidden alarm, his tendency to wear his emotions on his sleeves had seemed like the biggest liability in their plan. For Ra's sake, he had been making motorcycle noises as they'd entered the tomb. Years later, when he'd become the leader of an international crime syndicate and had learned the art of deception from a myriad of bad influences, Malik had still been unable to keep his feelings from his siblings.

When Isis had met her brothers after discovering their father's body, Malik had been completely guileless. Even now in his sinisterly calm state, Isis was sure that he wouldn't be able to conceal something so important from her. At this point she could almost imagine him bragging about it, but not hiding it. If Malik had indeed murdered their father, he had done it unknowingly, under an outside influence be it the Millennium Rod or the stranger with the Ankh. Rishid was protecting him from the truth. Despite how unnerving the shadowy figure before her was, Isis reminded herself that it was still her little brother. She squared her shoulders and looked him in the eyes.

"Unless your idea involves marching inside right now, I'm not interested."

Malik pressed on, unimpressed by Isis' attempt at authority. "The stranger said that the Pharaoh's time is almost at hand and that I was going down the dark road of the Pharaoh. What if he meant that it is my destiny to become the Pharaoh?"

Rishid and Isis stood in dumbfounded silence. The only sound to be heard was the buzz of flies attracted to their blood-soaked clothing. Neither sibling had known what to expect, but it certainly wasn't this.

In retrospect, Isis knew that she should have kept her mouth shut and let Rishid handle the situation. When it came right down to it he was better at calming Malik than she was. But it had been such a long and horrible day, and she had been so busy dealing with Rishid and Malik that she had not yet experienced any of the appropriate shock and grief. In the span of about six hours, her life had shattered around her, and she hadn't even cried yet. Raw emotion was building up inside of her and the dam was beginning to crack.

"Master Malik, I think if we try to discuss-"

"Shut up, Malik! That is the dumbest thing I have ever heard!"

Malik gaped at her. For as long as he could remember, both of his older siblings had seemed more like adults than children. This was the first time he had ever seen Isis act like a kid. In fact, this was the first time he had ever seen anyone besides himself act like a kid.

"No, you shut up!" Malik blurted out, his train of thought only briefly derailed. "My idea is really good! I know I'm not the real Pharaoh, but I can become him. I can use the Millennium Rod, and you can use the Torc, and we can seek out the other Millennium Items and find the three gods and bring back the Pharaoh, then I can banish him and become the new Pharaoh and rule. And I would be a good king, and I would never make anyone live underground!"

"Malik, I… how can…?" Isis tried to reign her emotions back in. "I don't think you know what you are talking about," she finally managed. But it sounded for all the world like he did. How many nights had Malik laid awake imagining this heresy? "He's the rightful ruler and you know it."

"Master, think about this," Rishid interjected. "If his time is at hand like the stranger said, then we will welcome him and escort him to the afterlife. And then we will be free! Think about that. If the stranger is right, our time protecting the Tomb will soon be over and you can live in the light. Isn't that something to be joyful about?"

There was a pregnant pause. Isis watched Malik and waited for his reaction. If that did not sway him, then she knew nothing would. Finally, Malik spoke.

"No." His voice was once again full of quiet anger.

"'No'? What do you mean, 'no'?" Isis demanded, exasperated.

"That is not good enough," Malik hissed. "I already told you, sister. He does not deserve to just wake up and be at peace, not when we have suffered for so long. I will not be satisfied until he knows my pain. I will send him to the afterlife, but I will send him on his hands and knees."

Malik looked upwards. The sun was now almost completely set and stars were beginning to twinkle in the inky desert night. "Isis, Rishid, it's so beautiful," Malik whispered. The last sliver of sunlight reflected off his hair as it fluttered in the breeze, wreathing him in a crown of light. He slowly turned back to his siblings. "Help me," he whispered. "I can bring the Pharaoh to justice and claim our reward. But I need your help."

A chill began to spread throughout Isis' body. This was still Malik and not the monster who had killed their father, but that somehow made everything worse. Malik, her beloved brother, was choosing this corrupt path for himself.

"Master," Rishid whispered. "Is there anything I can say or do to convince you to choose a different way?" His voice was hoarse and hopeful. Isis wondered what he would do when Malik answered the way she knew he inevitably would.

"This is my decision, Rishid," he responded. "I will not be swayed."

"Very well," Rishid said and smiled. Isis held her breath and waited for him to react. She knew that he would do the right thing. Rishid was loyal to a fault, true enough, but he had sworn to protect Malik. Surely, he would never let their little brother make such a terrible mistake.

Isis trusted Rishid completely, which is why his blow caught her so off-guard. It was hardly more than a firm push but so unexpected that it caused Isis to fall backward. As she flailed to regain her balance Rishid took advantaged of her weakened grip on the Millennium Rod and snatched it out of her hand. She hit the sandy ground and scrambled to stand back up, but it was too late. Rishid had already handed the Millennium Rod to Malik.

"I swore to serve you," Rishid said as he once again touched his scarred face. "I will keep that promise. I shall follow where you lead."

"Rishid, how could you?!" Isis cried. Unbidden tears welled in her eyes. "Malik please, give that back! You barely know how to use it!"

Malik shook his head. "Sister, I'm giving you one last chance," he said. "I beg you, come with us. You deserve to be free! Come with us, please?"

"No!" she said, pain saturating her voice. "I won't let you do this!" Without giving herself time to think, Isis lunged for the Millennium Rod.

Instead of clearing the five or so feet with ease, she crashed hard to the desert ground once again. However, this time she found herself unable to rise no matter how hard she tried. She swiveled her eyes, the only part of her that seemed capable of movement, up to her brothers. Malik was pointing the Millennium Rod at her.

"Stand up," he commanded. She obeyed.

"Br'th'r," she mumbled through lips that did not want to part. "Pl'se…"

"I gave you a chance, but you won't see reason. You may stay in the dark if you wish, but you will not make me."

Isis struggled against Malik's influence. The powers of the Rod were still new to him. After several years and much practice, he would be able to completely control most victims, turning them into puppets incapable of accessing their own thoughts and feelings. But this was only his second time to use the Rod, and the first time to use it in his right mind. Isis could still move her eyes, speak in slurs, and even twitch a few muscles, and her mind was completely her own. She looked imploringly at Rishid.

"R'sh'd," she burbled. "Plis, 'elp me."

Rishid looked away from her. "I'm sorry, Miss Isis," he mumbled. "But I promised to serve Master Malik."

"What ab't me?" The tears were now streaming down her face. "Y'r my br'th'r, too."

"Silence," Malik ordered, and her lips sealed tightly together. "Now, I order you to walk into the Tomb."

Isis' body walked itself to the entrance and began to descend the steps. Her legs spasmed painfully as she resisted Malik's control over her, but all that her efforts amounted to was a twisted ankle. When she reached the floor, she heard Malik and Rishid whispering above her. Isis couldn't make out any words but their tones suggested that they were debating something. After a few minutes of waiting, she heard a dull grinding sound above her. The soft light from the desert began to fade as her brothers closed the Tomb doors. As darkness engulfed her, she heard Malik call out one last order. "Wait there." She did.

Isis stood alone in the dark for what felt like a lifetime. The stench of old blood wafted through the tomb and nauseated her. Soon she began to cry in silence, the salty tears and sand still clinging to her from the fall mingling together and rubbing her face raw. She prayed to all the gods and all the kings that her brothers would change their minds and come back for her, but they never did. The pain of their betrayal hurt as badly as, if not worse than, the pain of her father's death. Her father had merely been a looming shadow in the background. Malik and Rishid had been her entire life. She loved them and had thought that they surely must love her, too. But they had abandoned her in the dark.

After more than two hours, Malik's control over her broke. The sudden lack of restraint caused her to fall forward onto the flagstones. She curled up and began to sob in earnest. After everything that she had been through, weeping so openly felt almost euphorically good. Isis knew that there were matters of grave importance she needed to attend, but at that moment her body needed to express at least some of the day's trauma.

Eventually Isis' sobs subsided enough for her to take stock of the situation. She was alone in the Tomb with just her father's body and the Millennium Torc. This struck her as odd. Malik had seemed drunk with the power of the Millennium Rod. Why would he pass on the opportunity to control both of the Items? She wondered if that's what they had argued about before shutting the doors, if Rishid had possibly interceded on her behalf, but thinking of them caused a fresh wave of sorrow to course through her. Instead, she simply counted herself lucky that they hadn't taken the Torc as well.

Isis rose unsteadily to her feet, legs still aching from the long hours she spent frozen, and set to the unpleasant tasks at hand. While she lacked the strength to move her father's body to the ritual room to await his funeral rites, she could at least clean the blood up and make him more respectable. She found a bottle of strong vinegar, a handful of scrubbing rags, and a linen sheet, and then began to make her way to the Millennium chamber, pausing here and there to wipe up the odd speck of blood. As she drew closer to the Millennium chamber the smell of coagulating blood became unbearable. Isis stopped to rub a few drops of vinegar under her nose. It made her skin itch and her sinuses burn, but anything was better than the rusty stench of old blood.

Isis paused before entering the Millennium chamber, dreading what awaited her inside. When she had awakened there earlier, her desperation to find Malik and Rishid had prevented her from fully absorbing the gruesome details around her. This time there would be no distractions, leaving her to face the reality of the situation. She took a deep, vinegary breath and entered the room.

First, she saw the flies. Isis had noticed a few buzzing around her as she approached but was taken aback by the massive swarm that covered the remains of her father. She noted with horror the way they explored his open mouth and eyes, and reveled in the pool of blood beneath him. That was the next thing she saw; the blood. It had changed from a viscous red to a dark, sticky brown and was splattered across the room. She took another step forward and felt the blood sucking at the sole of her shoe. Even with the vinegar under her nose, the stench was overwhelming. Unable to stop herself, Isis turned away from her father's body and vomited.

After a few minutes of retching, she poured the entire contents of the vinegar jar onto the floor and began to scrub up the mess. As she worked she forced herself to think of other things lest she become sick again. Her thoughts invariably turned to the Millennium Torc. Occasionally Isis would glance up at the necklace and found it miraculously untouched by the blood that had spattered over the rest of the room. Candlelight danced across the Wadjet Eye making it shimmer beguilingly. Isis felt like it was watching her.

Finally, Isis finished with the floor and walls. They still reeked and seemed to give off a greasy sheen, but at the moment it was the best that she could do. She wiped her stained hands on her tunic, trying to ignore the rust-red streaks they left, and turned to her father's body. For a moment Isis considered trying to clean him up as well, but as soon as she knelt beside him she began to heave again. Instead, she settled for draping the clean linen over him.

As Isis began to leave, she once again felt the strange sensation of being observed. She turned and saw the Millennium Torc sitting in its holder, the Wadjet Eye twinkling as if it was alive. As she stared at it an unbidden thought sprang to the forefront of her mind: she wanted to touch it. No, she needed to touch it. For some reason the idea of holding it, of feeling the cool gold against her skin, of wearing it around her neck seemed almost impossible to resist. What was so strange was that she had never once felt the urge to hold either of the Millennium Items before that moment. Isis had always known that the Torc belonged to her father and would be passed directly to Malik and not given it a second thought. But now, alone in the darkness, the desire to hold the Torc was painfully tempting.

Isis cautiously approached the holders, unsure of what she would do when she got there. The Wadjet Eye gazed innocuously up at her. She reached out and hesitated with her hand hovering over it. This is ridiculous, she thought. You don't really want to take the Millennium Torc. You're just tired and grieving, and want it because it's familiar. The painful truth of the thought caused a lump to form in her throat and tears to well back in her eyes. The Torc really was the only constant in her life that had not been torn away from her. Of course she wanted to hold onto it. It wasn't calling to her; she was simply craving comfort.

And what is the harm in that? she asked herself. That afternoon she had held onto the Millennium Rod for quite a while and nothing had happened. Simply allowing herself to hold the Torc for a while surely would not be any different. In fact, the notion of wearing it seemed somehow correct, as if it was the proper thing to do. Isis ignored the memory of Malik's hungry expression as he stared at the Millennium Rod. This was completely different. He had wanted to use the Rod for power and revenge. All Isis wanted was to find some peace. She didn't even want to use the Torc's powers and had no idea how it worked in any case.

Isis glanced down at the remains of her father. Technically, her handling the Millennium Torc was a breach of Ishtar family tradition, but after everything that had happened such a small transgression hardly seemed relevant. "Forgive me, Father," she whispered and reached out for the Torc. Her fingers had just brushed the Torc when-

HEAT
DESERT
PAIN
CARDS
EXPLOSIONS
GODS
"Isis Ishtar."
MILLENNIUM ITEMS
MONSTERS
DRAGONS
A BLUE EYED MAN
A BOY WITH FIREY HAIR
STONE
"You are my chosen bearer."
WIND
FLYING
VICTORY
RISHID DEAD
MALIK DEVOURED
"Behold our fate."
DARKNESS
DARKNESS
DARKNESS
DARKNESS