"I want you to lead the patrol today, Seth," Pharaoh said, turning away from the balcony. "I have a…feeling that something will happen that will require your talents." Seth was worried to see that Pharaoh's face seemed drawn and there were dark circles under his eyes. But the man's bearing was still proud and noble, and his eyes were still bright. Bakura hadn't taken that much at least.
Privately, Seth harbored fantasies of what exactly he was going to do to Bakura when they finally caught him. Flaying alive was the current favorite. Now, looking at his king's exhausted face, Seth resolved to think of something a bit more…painful.
Since the raid, Pharaoh had begun sending patrols into the desert to circle the city at some distance. Usually, several of the minor priests accompanied them to deal with the Shadowmancers that Bakura employed, or to give magical warning to the capital if the Thief King himself were to appear. No one harbored much belief that they would be able to deal directly with Bakura's magic, but the priests with real power, like Seth, could not afford to leave the city. Bakura was more likely to bypass the patrols entirely and sneak into the capital.
Still, the patrols soothed the surrounding peasants, who appreciated a show of force, and prevented Bakura from attacking the capital with his thieves behind him. Bakura's men were not skilled enough to avoid the protections, both magical and physical, that defended the Pharaoh's throne.
"A premonition?" Seth asked.
Pharaoh sighed. "A prayer."
It was a mark of Seth's respect for his pharaoh that he didn't question the order. Not out loud, at any rate. He simply bowed and strode from the room, calling for his horse.
"Okay, where the bloody hell are we?" Ron demanded.
Hermione shaded her eyes with one hand and looked around. "A desert of some kind. We're certainly not near Hogwarts."
Ron rolled his eyes. "Well duh. I was hoping for something a bit more specific."
"Um guys?" Harry interrupted. "Aren't those the Pyramids?" He pointed.
The other two looked in the direction he indicated. "Yes," Hermione said finally. "Yes, I think they are."
"Egypt then," Ron said. He grinned. "Cool."
"The question is, why we are we suddenly in Egypt?" Hermione said tersely. She examined the distant Pyramids again. "I thought there were more Pyramids than that."
Ron looked too. "There are." He suddenly looked worried. "Just where the hell are we?"
"I think a better question might be "When are we?" Harry said. "I don't think...if you guys are right, I think we might…we might have traveled back in time."
Ron looked appalled. "But why?" he asked, a slight tremor in his voice. "I mean, why us?"
"Why does all the bad stuff alwayshappen to us?" Harry asked bitterly. "It's just the way it is."
"Well, I for one am not going to just hang out here in the middle of the desert," Hermione said crisply. "Let's walk towards the Pyramids. There are bound to be people there."
"Those things are so big they could be days away," Ron complained, but fell in step anyway. "Besides, do you speak Egyptian?"
Hermione faltered. "Well, no."
"Then how are you going to talk to anyone?" he pointed out. "They'll probably just execute us for being evil spirits or something."
"This is Egypt, not the Stone Age," Hermione protested. "They aren't barbarians."
"Um guys?" Harry said.
They both looked at him. He pointed to a dark cloud on the horizon, rapidly growing larger. "I think we're about to have a choice made for us."
They spread out slightly, Thankfully, they still had their wands. As the cloud approached, they were able to see what it was. Riders. Soldiers, judging by the spears they carried and the grim expressions on their faces. At the lead rode a man in flowing white robes and a strange, elaborate headdress. He held the reins with one hand and gripped a long golden staff in the other.
"Look at that guy's hat," Ron muttered, clearly trying to relive the tension all three felt at the sight of armed riders galloping down upon them.
"Don't use your wands until we're sure they mean to attack us," Harry said. "We're a little outnumbered."
"No kidding," Ron said. There were at least a hundred riders, not including the leader.
"I think the one in the lead is a priest," Hermione whispered. "But I can't tell from which era." She sounded vexed that she could not immediately identify the time period they were in from the clothing of a man who was half obscured by his horse's head.
Ron rolled his eyes. "How will you ever live down the shame?" he said sarcastically.
That was all they were able to say before the lead rider pulled his horse up in a spray of sand and wheeled it around to examine the trio. One of the soldiers rode up beside him and barked something unintelligible at Ron, Harry, and Hermione.
"Do you have any idea what he's saying?" Harry muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
Hermione looked worried. "No."
The soldier's eyes narrowed. While the priest watched impassively, he lowered his spear at them and repeated the question, more slowly. When they still did not respond, the man shifted tactics. He spoke again, this time in a different language entirely. At least it sounded different, but it still didn't make any sense to the three teenagers.
Finally, the lead rider spoke up. His voice was low and somewhat gravelly, and incomprehensible. He too tried a variety of languages, his eyes narrowing at the continued lack of response.
"I wish we could tell them that the only language we know won't be invented for a couple thousand years," Ron said.
The priest backed his horse up a step and barked an order at the soldiers. Instantly, about twenty of them rode forward and pointed their spears at the trio's throats.
Harry reacted. "Stupefy!" he yelled, pointing his wand at the nearest soldier and diving to the sand as the red beam of light knocked the man off his horse. Ron and Hermione followed his lead, dodging the spears and throwing non-lethal spells at the surrounding soldiers.
Harry darted to his feet and raised his wand again, but before he could cast another spell, he felt a suffocating pressure on his mind, and to his utter horror, he felt himself turning his wand towards Ron and Hermione. He tried desperately to lower it, but could not. His friends' eyes widened with horror. Without his direction, Harry's lips moved and his voice cried out, "Stupefy! Stupefy!"
His friends dropped to the sand, stunned, their wands falling from their limp hands. The soldiers dismounted, aiming their spears, but the priest said something in an imperious tone. They settled for forming a ring around the prisoners, spears at the ready, but no longer prepared to kill.
Harry was still frozen in place. The suffocating pressure on his mind lifted slightly, and he was able to turn his head as the priest dismounted and entered his field of view. There was a golden eye blazing on the man's forehead, and the staff in his hand was likewise glowing. Eyes never leaving Harry's face, the priest reached out and collected Harry's wand.
At the priest's command, several soldiers dismounted and cautiously approached the prisoners, while still others stood guard. Harry felt cold metal on his wrists and looked down to see the soldiers fastening on shackles. The semi-conscious Ron and Hermione were dragged to their feet and similar shackles secured. Soldiers retrieved their wands and presented them to the priest.
As Seth remounted his horse, he sighed inwardly. You had a feeling something would happen, he thought in Pharaoh's direction grumpily, though he knew his king would not hear. Why for once could you not have been wrong? Then a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Then again…
To Harry, who did not know what Seth was thinking, the small smile did not bode well. He glanced at his friends, now stumbling beside him on rubbery legs, attached by ropes to the pommels of several guards' saddles. The guards who had been stupefied had been lifted up onto their horses and tied in place, but Ron and Hermione had no such help. Harry felt a jolt of horror at the memory of his hand rising on his own and his voice casting a spell without his control.
"It wasn't your fault," Hermione said softly. Harry whipped his head around to look at her. How does she do that?
"But I…"
Ron shook his head. "Your eyes went all blank and there was this golden eye on your forehead. You looked possessed or something." He shrugged. "Hermione's right. It wasn't your fault."
One of the guards prodded Ron in the back with the butt of his spear. None of them could understand what he said, but the implication was clear: Shut up.
Harry felt the pit in his stomach loosen a little, to be replaced by anger. He glared at the priest riding a little ways ahead of them. He remembered how there had been an eye on his forehead, the same symbol that was on the golden rod in his hand. If this man had the power to control others – just like Voldemort, Harry thought grimly – then he was dangerous.
The priest swiveled in his saddle to look back at Harry, as though he could hear what he was thinking. Harry looked away.
They walked for what seemed like hours. Each step took more and more effort. The sand clung to everything, and the thick black robes they still wore made it feel like they were walking in a furnace. Just when Harry thought it wasn't possible for it to get any hotter, the sun came directly overhead. The temperature climbed. The soldiers gave them some water, but before long, Harry's head was spinning.
A few minutes later, Hermione fell down in a dead faint. Immediately, the priest called a halt and dismounted. He felt Hermione's forehead, then pulled out his canteen and splashed some on her cheeks. Her eyes fluttered, then opened. The priest put the mouth of the canteen to her lips and squeezed a few drops into her mouth. The water revived her all the way, and he crouched at her side patiently while she drank.
Then he pulled a knife from his belt. Ron and Harry threw themselves at him, but the rope attached to their wrists dragged them back. Hermione's eyes widened in fear. But all he did was cut down the sleeve of her black robe to the neckline, allowing her to pull one of her arms out of the sleeve without removing the shackles. He shifted position and did the same thing to the other side. All the while, he murmured to her in his language. Though Hermione didn't understand his words, the tone was soothing. Slowly, she relaxed.
He's about our age, she realized. He met her eyes briefly as he worked, and she was startled to see they were dark blue, set like jewels in his tanned face. Her stomach lurched and she felt her cheeks flush.
I'm his prisoner! she told herself angrily. I should not be caring about his looks! Her body paid no attention. She was suddenly extremely glad she was wearing jeans and a shirt beneath her robes.
He finished, and stood, reaching a hand under her elbow to pull her to her feet. His face was like stone, as though he frequently cut the robes off girls in the middle of the desert, but Hermione was weak-kneed with embarrassment. He waited until she found her feet before picking up the fabric that he had dropped.
Though he didn't speak English, his look of utter disdain said it all: What kind of idiot wears thick black robes in the middle of a desert? Hermione felt the flush on her cheeks deepen.
The priest turned to Harry and Ron, who were watching the whole process with angry glares, and raised the hand with the knife in it questioningly. The boys shook their heads vigorously, too proud to admit that they were sweltering under their black robes.
"Don't be idiots," Hermione called to them. "It's not like you're not wearing clothes underneath."
Grudgingly, Ron and Harry nodded to the priest. But instead of approaching them, he simply swung back into his saddle. Guards did the job for him, leaving the tattered black robes lying in the sand. The boys fumed.
They began to walk again. Far in the distance, they could barely make out a vague blur on the horizon. It was to this blur that the priest was leading them. Now that she was not in danger of fainting, Hermione noticed that the entire party seemed tense and alert. The guards scanned the desert around them constantly, their hands never releasing their tight grip on their weapons. The priest, leading them, also kept a sharp eye on their surroundings, and occasionally the staff in his hand glowed with an eerie light. When this happened, he would push the party on with greater speed, forcing Harry, Ron, and Hermione to stagger on a little faster.
After a while, the outlines of the blur sharpened. It was a city, with high walls and massive gates. As they approached, Harry, Ron, and Hermione could make out guards patrolling along its length, all armed and wary. A great shout went up as the riders approached, but it was not until the priest called out to the city guards that the ponderous gates began to open.
A few steps later, the trio of prisoners finally stumbled into the city. The sights and sounds all around nearly overwhelmed them. There were merchants lining both sides of the wide street, calling out their wares in a variety of strange tongues. Fabrics, food, jars, all this and more covered the narrow wooden tables. Dancers dressed in little more than strips of cloth undulated on street corners, collecting coins without missing a beat. Everywhere people were buying, selling, and bargaining in the shade of the sand-colored buildings. There were horses everywhere, and the road was littered with the occasional droppings of dung. It felt like walking into a merry-go-round of color: dizzying. The Egyptian people, dressed in loincloths and tattered tunics, turned to stare as the patrol rode through the gates. Momentary silence fell.
The riders didn't stop or even slow. They trotted down the road, trusting on the people to clear the route before them. Two of the guards rode at the head of the column, yelling at those who did not move quickly enough. The peasants and merchants moved, but Harry thought he saw a hint of sullenness in their eyes when they caught sight of the party's leader. As for the priest himself, he paid no attention to the people crowding in on either side. He seemed consumed by his own thoughts.
Whispering began to run through the crowd as the stumbling group of prisoners was spotted. Even without their black robes, Harry, Ron, and Hermione didn't look like natives. Their jeans and long-sleeved shirts might have been suitable for English weather, but here it marked them as outsiders. Guards kept the crowds back, but they could not stop the whispering that followed the prisoners all the way to the gates of the palace.
If the city was overwhelming, the palace itself was simply breathtaking. The heavy stone walls were sheathed in gold, and the gates themselves were carved ornately with hieroglyphics and other symbols. The guards prodded Harry, Ron, and Hermione forward with their spears as they stood there gaping. For all their size, the gates slid open smoothly. With a sudden clatter, the horses swept into the courtyard.
Seth slid off his horse and allowed one of the grooms to take the stallion to the stables. He glanced back at the trio of prisoners, who were now watching him warily. The boys eyed him with blatant dislike. The girl though…It was only when he heard someone calling his name that he realized he was still standing in the courtyard. He focused in time to see Mahaad hurrying down the steps of the palace, one hand instinctively straying to the Millennium Ring.
"Mahaad," Seth greeted in a neutral tone. Before Bakura, there had been harsh competition between the two of them. Shared stress and heartache had drawn them closer together, and the sight of the other priest no longer rankled. Much.
Mahaad, however, did not seem to be in the mood for reminiscing. "Who are they?" he inquired, nodding at the three strange teenagers standing in a circle of guards.
"I found them in the desert."
Mahaad eyed the strange clothing the prisoners were wearing. "Such heavy fabric is hardly wise for the desert."
"When I found them, they were wearing thick robes."
Mahaad raised an eyebrow incredulously. "Not the Thief King's then."
"No," Seth agreed. "I think this is something entirely different." He stepped a little closer to the other priest. "Mahaad, how does Pharaoh?"
"He is well," Mahaad answered, just as carefully. "Why?"
"Because I think he was expecting them."
Mahaad's face was skeptical. "Do you have proof of this?"
"Call it an intuition," Seth said. "But I will take them before Pharaoh immediately."
Mahaad nodded. He called to the guards, who began to herd the prisoners up the stairs. Mahaad looked at each one carefully as they walked by. The girl and the boy with the strange red hair looked distinctly nervous. The black-haired boy just looked angry.
With the priests behind them and the soldiers surrounding them, Ron, Harry, and Hermione entered the hall.
The throne room was magnificent, and Hermione started to study the hieroglyphs despite herself. It was massive and lined with marble, the ceiling nearly a hundred feet overhead. Lavish decorations lined both walls. Scribes with tablets and sheets of papyrus stood nearby, and Hermione could see soldiers stationed at regular points around the room. The court, dressed in extravagant clothes (some of which Hermione was embarrassed to note were nearly transparent), began to murmur in astonishment as the trio stumbled towards the throne at the far end.
It was this throne that caught Hermione's attention. It was gold and elaborately decorated, just as the rest of the palace was, but its chief attraction was its occupant. The pharaoh sat regally, arms resting upon either arm of the chair. He was short and slender, but nonetheless clearly a king. Gold glimmered from both wrists, and a golden collar sheathed his throat. His tunic was exquisitely worked linen, slightly (Hermione was pleased to note) less see-through than the clothing of his court.
It was the face, however, that drew her stare. His angular face, a deep tan, was undeniably regal. His hair was a mixture of black, red, and gold, wild and uncontrolled beneath his golden crown. It should have looked like he'd put his finger in an electrical outlet and got fried. It didn't. And his eyes…Hermione gasped, and she heard similar sounds from her friends beside her.
The pharaoh's eyes were the color of blood.
Their captor and the other priest stepped past the prisoners and sank to one knee. Under the prodding of the guards, Ron, Harry, and Hermione followed them down. The pharaoh spoke. His voice was deep and majestic, like his appearance. But his words were incomprehensible.
"I'm sorry," Hermione squeaked nervously. "We don't understand you."
The pharaoh frowned and turned his head to the blue-eyed priest. A flurry of conversation followed, and the pharaoh's gaze softened slightly. His hand drifted to a huge golden pyramid that hung upside from a chain around his neck. A gold light played around the throats and ears of the prisoners before disappearing as suddenly as it had come.
Then the Pharaoh leaned forward slightly and his crimson eyes hardened once again.
"Now," he said, in perfect English. "Who are you, and what brings you to my throne?"
