---------September 5, 1933--------
The sun was hot.
Mark bent his head, wiping his face against the damp cotton of his shirtsleeve. He caught a glare from O'Connell, and studiously ignored Carnahan on his other side, staring pointedly between fuzzed ears.
He and the camel hadn't had more than the chance to blink at each other before he'd been shoved on it and they were crossing the sands outside the Nile's west bank, headed toward what had once been the Faiyum oasis. Strange. There had been no camels in Egypt until relatively recent times; neither the rancher nor the ancient noble had a proper idea of what to do with the creature.
Luckily, his wrists were bound, taking any decision out of his hands.
Or not so lucky.
Mark didn't bother testing the ropes. He knew good knots when he saw them, and they were in the middle of the desert. I have no water. Where, exactly, am I going to run?
Still, he would give O'Connell credit for paying attention to his prisoner, even if the man didn't pay proper attention to his son. His wife, yes. The two of them were still very much in love, from the soft words and looks he could see, and the hardness in O'Connell's eyes when the other man looked at him.
Jealousy was an old ache, easily ignored. Mark closed his eyes a moment, breathing past old pain. I miss you, Seanna.
Bump.
Wh-
Another not-so-gentle nudge, and he blinked against blinding rays. Carnahan was holding out a canteen. You're dehydrated. Which would very well explain his sudden drop into melancholy.
Mark drank, carefully, no more than two swallows. The water was being rationed, and he knew that as a prisoner, he was last on the list of priorities. The previous day and night had shown him that. They want me to get wherever we're going alive. But they don't particularly care what shape I'm in when we get there. "Thank you."
At least with the Germans he'd known what to expect. POW's gave name, rank, serial number only; no troop movements, no communication codes, not even commanders' names. No matter what.
"How much further, Rick?" She kept her voice low, but the heat had pulled every last scrap of energy from them all; Evelyn O'Connell was the first to speak in hours.
"By the end of the day we should reach Ardeth's camp, according to the curator." Rick slanted a glance toward the one man who looked completely at home on his mount's back.
The thin Arab turned back and nodded, squinting from the angle of the sun. "Three hours," he called.
Despite all he did to suppress it, adrenaline slammed through Mark's veins. Three hours. Until. . . I wish I knew. Even anticipating torture would be better than this . . . this not-knowing.
"Good," Carnahan sighed extravagantly. "I'm bloody bored."
O'Connell rolled his eyes; the boy – Alex – giggled.
"Language, Jonathan." But it was a halfhearted protest; even Mark could hear it.
"My dear, sweet, baby sister -"
And they were squabbling again, much as Iduna and Nicholas had during all their shared childhood. Mark's adopted siblings still fought tremendously when the mood struck. At least, when Nick's sober. If not the same, this was still familiar, and he could ignore it.
Out of the corner of his eye, he stared at O'Connell. So lucky. And you don't even see it, do you?
-----------------
Fletcher was staring at him again.
Nothing noticeable, but it was a steady gaze from the corner of dark eyes that flicked away whenever he shot a glare at the captive. It had been going on since early morning, and they had been riding camel-back for over six hours now.
Where does he – Aggravation burned hot in his veins; he clipped the thought short. Rick tightened the grip on his camel's rope. "How much longer?" Then bit his lip.
"Now I know where Alex gets it," Evie murmured, pixie-smile hovering around the corners of full lips.
Their guide – whose name was Fuad – saved him from having to answer. "We should arrive in the camp within minutes, O'Connell."
That close? Rick perked up, saw Alex, Evie, and Jonathan do the same. Fletcher tensed. Damn right. Now, they could get to the bottom of this. Ardeth had more sources, more connections and more information about Imhoteph's priesthood than he could ever hope to gather in the short timeframe he had.
And time was short – danger rumbled, deep in his gut.
"They are expecting us," Fuad commented, raising his voice to carry across the sands.
Blue eyes shifted; Rick saw a tiny flash of blackness against the brightness of the desert, only two dunes distant. Scouts. On foot, unlike the array of men he remembered seeing, lined up in rows and on horseback, atop a mountain – over ten years ago now. Medjai.
Guiding his camel along a dune, Rick saw Alex craning his neck.
"What's that?"
Trees, stunning green against the creamy brilliance of sand. Rick felt his heart give a strong kick against his ribs; he swallowed. Not again. "It's an oasis."
"Oh, my," Evie breathed, gray eyes wide.
"Here we go again," Jonathan muttered.
Fletcher was silent.
"It's huge!" Alex wore his mother's expression of amazed wonder.
"It's the Faiyum," Evie continued. "But it's supposed to be lost – swallowed by the desert, a thousand years ago or more!"
"It was not," Fuad commented serenely. A tiny smirk flashed about his face, then disappeared.
Rick shot the man an assessing glance. That explains a lot. Ardeth had mustered one hundred thousand Medjai, or more, to aid in the battle against the Scorpion King. He'd seen the tracks. That many people, living in the desert? They would need extensive water and food sources to support them, even when broken into smaller tribes.
And this oasis looks large enough to do so.
After all, the desert bred a conservative, careful people. Extravagance and waste would kill them; but quick minds and an ever-ready eye for water meant they could thrive, prosper even.
Rick raised his voice over Alex's excited chatter, Evie's rejoinders and Jonathan's astonished mutterings. "Where's Ardeth?"
Instead of answering, Fuad clicked his tongue and tugged the camel's reins, carefully sidling through slipping sand. Fletcher's camel, bound to their guide's, followed.
So did Rick.
-----------------
Wow!
It wasn't anything like Ahm Shere. Instead of thick undergrowth and shadows with eyes, there were tents scattered in clumps beneath waving palms.
Alex kicked his camel up toward their guide's. The sudden breeze from the animal's faster movement felt good against the skin of his face and neck. "Fuad! Fuad! How many people live here?" This is so neat!
A low laugh broke from the thin Arab. "Many, young O'Connell. The twelve tribes of the Medjai are scattered all across the deserts of Egypt, but this is the place we all call home."
"Neat!" Looking around, he could see women, walking and talking with baskets and little kids running everywhere. Older kids, too, with animals and even a gaggle of geese parading between two tents. "Where are we going?"
"To the center of the Faiyum," Fuad said smoothly. "Ardeth Bay waits for you there."
"Alex!"
Pulling on the reigns, he managed to stop his camel. Whew. That's hard. It didn't help that his legs weren't long enough to reach the stirrups. Mum came up, worry on her face. "Don't go racing off like that, Alex."
"Stay close," Dad added. "You don't want to run anyone down by accident." A teasing twinkle gleamed in bright blue for just a second, and Alex grinned back.
But then he caught the nervous look his mom was giving Fletcher, whose camel had passed by Alex's as he'd waited for Mum and Dad to catch up. They don't want me near him. He'd almost forgotten why they were here.
"He's tied up," Alex objected. "I couldn't do anything when Imhoteph had me tied to my camel."
Dad sat up straight; a hand flew to Mum's mouth.
Alex frowned. What?
"He's bigger than you, Alex," Dad said slowly. He's angry. Alex blinked. Really angry. "And he's older and stronger too. I just don't want to take any chances."
"Okay," he agreed, a little uncertain.
"Ah, there he is!" A fourth camel nudged into their little circle, but Uncle Jon wasn't looking at any of them. Alex followed the pointing arm, and saw the dark-robed Medjai who had shown up at their house the night the priests had kidnapped Mum.
Fuad, a few camel-lengths closer, slipped from his saddle to take his animal, and the one carrying their prisoner, by the halter.
"C'mon, Alex." Dad had jumped down, and was reaching up for him.
Feet hitting tough grass, Alex staggered a little. Whoa.
"You okay?"
"Yeah."
"Good." Dad smiled, a hand ruffling through his hair.
"Daaad!"
Dad just chuckled. So, maybe he didn't mind as much. This once. Mum and Uncle Jon were down too, leading their camels over to them.
"O'Connell."
Whoa! Alex jumped, fingers clenching Dad's. Dark, familiar eyes met his when he whipped around, half-falling behind his Dad. Ardeth. Alex swallowed, heaving a sigh. On the sand and the grass, you really can't hear anyone coming up behind you.
Mum stepped forward first, with a smile. "Ardeth."
Then Dad, raising his fingers in some sort of salute, before exchanging a handshake with the Medjai. "And Alex."
"Hi," he offered.
From the side, Uncle Jon waved awkwardly.
Heee!
At his mother's warning glance, Alex bit back the giggle. Uncle Jon winked at him.
Two men came over; a few fluid words from Ardeth had them pulling Fletcher off his camel. With a few more instructions, the men and Fuad disappeared with the prisoner. Alex looked up in time to see something, grim and purposeful, echo between Dad and Ardeth; then the warrior smiled. "We will have evening meal in a short while. For now, share our water and be welcome."
Neat! Dad and Mum started to follow as Ardeth turned toward a nearby fall of canvas. The camels! "Wait – but what about -" Twisting, Alex looked back to see several women coaxing the animals away in the other direction.
"Don't worry, Alex," Mum soothed. "They'll be taken care of."
"Fleabags," Uncle Jon grumbled.
"We prefer horses to camels," Ardeth commented, leading them deeper into the shade of the palms, behind the tent.
Horses? Wow! I bet they're Arabians, the fastest horses anywhere! Excitement bubbled over. "Really? Neat! Can I see them? Where do -"
"Alex," Dad warned. Oops.
"Of course," Ardeth laughed. Huh. He has a nice laugh. He'd never heard it before. But he didn't know the Medjai really. Not like Mum and Dad do. More fluid words that fascinated him, called out across grass and between breeze-rustled leaves. I bet I could learn that.
A man emerged from behind tough white cloth, and gave a shout. A boy, just about Alex's age, ran around from the other side of the tent. The two joined them, pulling more of the language from Ardeth, though Alex caught their names in the midst of it.
"Go with Hakim," Ardeth said to him. "He will take you to see our horses. His son, Aali, speaks English and needs to practice. Mind him," dark eyes locked on his seriously. "And do not stray from the camp. The desert is not forgiving."
Alex gulped. Jeez.
"I don't know -" Dad's hand on his shoulder kept Alex from moving.
Mum was standing very close to them both. "Are you sure it will be safe?"
Alex peered up at her, and started to scowl. We're in the middle of the Medjai camp, Mum! But he knew better than to say it.
Dark eyes looked over all of them. "It will be all right," Ardeth said softly. "I trust Hakim."
Wouldn't hurt to try now. Alex turned a bit, still looking up. "Please, Mum?"
-----------------
"It's better that he's not here for this, anyway," Rick's lips brushed her ear, hands warm on her shoulders. Evie leant back into his embrace, still watching the sun glint off blond strands as Alex disappeared between green leaves. The older man's form remained in view for a short while longer.
"Hakim is one of our tribe's greatest warriors," Ardeth's voice carried only as far as their ears. The Medjai ducked underneath a canvas flap, inviting them beneath its shade. "I would trust him with the lives of my children."
What?
Pausing on the threshold, Evie blinked and felt her husband's surprise. "I didn't know you had a family, Ardeth."
"Three sons and two daughters," was the calm pronouncement. "They are elsewhere."
And that's all we'll hear about that, Evie knew. The Faiyum seemed to be the secret it was safe for the outside world to discover – naturally, there would be other hideaways used by the nomadic warrior-tribes of Medjai.
"I have received reports from Fuad," Ardeth broke the silence. "Evelyn. There have been attempts on your life?"
"Three," and she told him about the stone block, the cab, and the scorpion.
"We decided to go to ground, somewhere they hopefully couldn't find us. We tried Cairo," Rick continued. His fingers wrapped around hers, squeezed tight. "But then Fletcher showed up again."
"In the Museum," Ardeth nodded, cushions giving way as he invited them to sit. "You believe him to be an assassin?"
Evelyn felt her husband freeze at the word. "Maybe," he said softly.
She couldn't help but look in the direction Fletcher had been dragged off. "What are you going to do to him?"
"He knows things we need to know, Evie," Rick said softly.
Suspicion wound through her veins, followed by the swift shock of horror. "Rick. That better not mean what I think you're saying."
"Evie, sometimes there are certain ways that will give you information when others won't."
It wasn't often that demons from her husband's past in the Legion came back to haunt them, but Evie couldn't help herself. "That's barbaric."
"It is the most extreme measure we are able to take." Ardeth sipped from a clay vessel. "If we do not get the answers we seek from him in other ways, then we will move on to less pleasant means of questioning. Some men crumble at only the threat of pain."
She shuddered. "Still. Is that – really necessary?"
"If I didn't know better, I'd say you didn't believe this guy tried to kill you, Evie."
"I'm not convinced he did!" She burst to her feet, taking two steps away before turning. "Not entirely."
"Why?"
The question was neutral; faced with Ardeth's impassivity rather than Rick's restrained incredulity, Evie gathered her thoughts. "Because he pushed me out of the way of the falling block. He was going to take the cab I ended up in, but let me have it instead. He wasn't anywhere near when we – found – the scorpion in our house. It could just be coincidence. We can't prove that he's done anything!" And just because he was there doesn't mean -
"He was already in Cairo, in the Museum, when we arrived. And what about the scar on his arm?" Rick demanded.
I forgot about that. "I don't know," she admitted, sinking back into grass-filled hide. A strong arm encircled her shoulders, and Evie sighed. But . . . I trusted him. And the feeling should have been one of betrayal – only it wasn't. "I still feel like there must be another explanation."
Ardeth cut into the silence. "Brand?"
Evie sipped at a ceramic cup full of cool water. I didn't realize I was so thirsty.
"On his left inner wrist." Rick tapped his own.
"It's the Aten," she added. "Mark of the -"
"- heretic pharaoh," Ardeth finished with a frown. "That priesthood had died out by the time of the Pharaoh Horemheb."
"That's why I have such trouble believing this!" Evie sat up straighter. "That the Priesthood of Amun survived three thousand years beyond the collapse of the New Kingdom is extraordinary. But the Temple of Amun was the greatest and richest of all the priesthoods of Egypt, even those of Isis and Osiris. I just don't understand how followers of a heretic pharaoh who overturned the entire culture of Egypt, and whose efforts were erased as soon as he died, could have lasted until now!"
"It is a riddle, indeed," Ardeth murmured.
-----------------
"Did you have any trouble with him?"
It was cooler inside the mud-brick walls of one of their more permanent structures, giving relief from the heavy heat of the desert that penetrated even deeply into the Faiyum. Here, some of the night's chill could be captured for the hours when the sun beat down on them.
Baqir answered, never taking his eyes from the prisoner. "No."
Ardeth took in the sight of the man, tightly tied to one of the poles supporting the roof of grass and mud-plastered leaves. "Any sign that he understood you?"
"None." Salil leant against the mud-brick wall.
"Very well." Ardeth crouched in front of the man, locking eyes. I know this face, he realized, with the sudden start of unexpected recognition. How? "Your name is Mark Fletcher?"
The chin came up, brown eyes shuttered. The man said nothing.
"Untie his left arm."
Salil came forward; Ardeth caught the stiffening of the prisoner's body. He's nervous, afraid. Good. Baqir remained by the door, and Salil remained within reach. A trapped man would strike out, any way he could; there was little use in taking pointless chances.
Ardeth curled two fingers under the wrist; felt muscles tense under his grip. But he had little trouble turning the arm over to reveal the disc-shaped scar. He resists, as if it is instinct, but does not fight us. An intelligent foe was always the more dangerous.
His eyes skimmed scar-whitened flesh, and the sense of familiarity grew stronger. "When did you get this?"
He's not going to say anything.
But Fletcher surprised him.
"Sixteen years ago." The voice rasped in their prisoner's throat; he coughed, once, tongue swiping at dry lips. The desert was kind to no one, not even her own.
That long? It was old scar tissue, deep – Ardeth knew that marks like this never faded, only silvered with age. But . . . sixteen years? "Who gave it to you?"
"No one you're thinking of," was the response.
Ardeth stepped back, trying to force the man to look up at him. Fletcher did, one eyebrow quirking in a way that made instinct twist inside him, insisting, I know that expression. But he could not recall where he had seen Fletcher before. Stay in control of the questioning. "Who gave you that mark?"
Brown eyes unfocused; the prisoner's voice was flat. "I don't know."
Impossible.
"You are a follower of the priesthood of Amun."
They both knew it wasn't true; but now that the man was speaking, Ardeth needed to know how he would react when he truly could defend himself against an accusation.
"I don't know what you're talking about." Words he had heard several times before, but it was unusual to hear such dullness – as if the prisoner knew they were just going through the formalities of questioning, before the real interrogation began. He will force us to hurt him; he will not break otherwise.
Or he was already broken.
Well. They would see.
Boots circled in the sand; Ardeth stopped directly behind Fletcher, crouched down low to breathe into the prisoner's ear. "You are alone, here. There is no one to help you."
The words were low, gravelly. "I know."
Hmm.
Ardeth circled one last time. Back to the door, he studied Fletcher once more. Neutral body language. No eye contact, no facial expression. Like a stela, carved into one of the great temples. "Before we are done, you will tell me who sent you to kill Evelyn O'Connell."
The mask slipped, for just a moment, and he saw true astonishment before blankness slid over the prisoner's features. Was he surprised because I know his mission? Or for some other reason?
Time would tell.
Outside the adobe hut, Ardeth turned to Baqir. "Give him no food, no water. Report to me every day at sunup and sundown with his condition." He met the shorter, stockier man's eyes seriously. "The prisoner is our only source of information to the whereabouts of this new threat. He must not die, nor be permanently damaged."
A swift nod answered him.
---------September 10, 1933--------
Hmmm. Bloody hot, as usual. Wonder what Evie and Rick are up to? Canvas got in his way and almost tangled, but Jonathan wormed past it, staggering only a little. One, two . . . "Where's Alex gone off to, then?"
His sister looked up from a brown nest of cushions with a smile. "He and Aali are great friends. I couldn't pry them away from the horses for anything."
"Ah." Looking around, he gave a wave to Rick. His brother-in-law nodded, hands filled with knife and whetting stone. "So. What d'we know?"
Evie stood, making her way across a thick rug to several bowls of food perched on a low table. Dates, figs, mmmm. "Despite the dehydration, Ardeth hasn't found out anything important." Disgust colored her tone.
Jonathan settled against Evie's cushions, stretching out booted feet. "Y'mean they haven't given the bloke any water in days?"
Brown curls bounced in the negative.
Jonathan shuddered. That's bloody awful. "Did he say anything yet?"
"Nothing useful," Rick answered.
Jonathan blinked, settling deeper into the cushions. "Well, I don't suppose we could just -"
Riiiiiiiiip
"DOWN!"
"Oh!"
"I say -" His sister and Rick were a tangle of limbs on the rough ground-cover; deadly steel glinted in the tent's support pole, still trembling from the force of the throw. Someone just tried to – "Wh – what!"
Ardeth burst into the tent, black curls flying wild. "O'Connell!"
"It came from the north – that way – go!"
And the Medjai was gone, racing in the direction of Rick's outflung hand.
"That's it," Rick was pulling Evie up, holding her tight.
Jonathan stumbled away from the cushions, tripping as his foot met goose-feather stuffing rather than solid ground. "Evie!"
"I'm fine," she murmured, but then gray eyes shot wide. "Alex!"
Oh my God. Jonathan sucked in a breath, watching as sudden fear snapped his brother-in-law upright, an order on his lips. "I'll get him, stay with Jonathan!"
And in a swirl of canvas, Rick was gone. Stay – stay here? Sitting ducks. But there was no way his sister would –
"Wait, Rick!"
"Evie, no – wait!" Jonathan stumbled past the tent-flap as his sister went racing after her husband. Oh, bloody hell! The sun and heat slammed into him like a hammer to the chest – his brother-in-law was running in this?
And so was Evie. Blast it! Staggering through the sand, Jonathan hurtled after her. "Evie!"
She didn't pause; he could see the fenced-in area now, and through the blinding sun and sand made out the short blond figure of his nephew. Alex barreled forward, twisting free from the hold of a burly Medjai.
Panic had Jonathan staring, waiting for disaster to strike as the small form streaked over hot sand; but Alex barreled safely into his parents' arms. Thank God. He slowed his mad rush, walking the last few steps to join his family and heaving a relieved breath.
"That's it," Rick growled, arms protectively circling Jon's sister and nephew. Jonathan's brother-in-law kept a wary eye cast outside the small huddle they made under a scraggly Sycamore. "It's time we got to the bottom of this. C'mon."
And he was stalking away through the dappled shade offered by the Faiyum's trees, tugging Alex by one hand and Evie by the other. Oh now what? Jonathan followed, shrugging at the sideways glances of several training Medjai as they passed.
"Rick, what are you going to do?" he heard his sister ask. Over their shoulders he could see the few permanent buildings hidden in the center of the Faiyum. One had two burly men posted at an opening covered by a canvas flap.
Rick didn't pause, slipping his hands free and storming toward the guards. "Stay here," he threw over his shoulder.
Jonathan snorted. Evie? Stay? Didn't we just try this? For all Rick O'Connell had been married to his sister for years, the man was incurably dense sometimes. But they only had a moment to think about it before Rick disappeared into the structure, guards barely giving him a second glance as he passed.
The thick slam of fist against flesh resounded through heavy canvas. Jonathan saw grey eyes widen, impossibly shocked, before his sister shoved into the hut, leaving him and Alex staring at each other.
As one, they blinked, and then scrambled past the cloth door beneath the shelter of mud bricks and wooden beams – and pulled up short.
Fletcher had been untied, and Jonathan could see why. The man was clad only in a thin shirt and trousers, boots missing. Wouldn't get far without them on hot sand. Not that he thought Fletcher would be going anywhere. Sweat coated his skin, but his lips were cracked and dry, dark eyes slitted with a combination of exhaustion and dehydration. Blood trailed from a lip newly split by his brother-in-law's knuckles.
Small arms suddenly clung to his waist; Alex pressed tightly against him. Jonathan dropped a hand to the boy's head.
Fletcher looked half-dead, with Rick's hand fisted at his collar the only thing holding him upright. Dragging him up, more like.
Jonathan swallowed, turning Alex's face into his side with the half-formed thought that he didn't want his nephew seeing this. My God.
Hanging from Rick's grip, Fletcher rasped, "Met en tjen."
A tiny gasp emerged from Alex, almost muffled where his nephew's face was pressed against his waistcoat, but not quite.
"What was that?" Jonathan sputtered, feeling the foreign words resolve into meaning, somewhere deep in his brain. No, no! It was happening again, the world slipping sideways in time and he was going insane. No. He wouldn't let it.
"He's delirious." Rick opened his fist, dropping the man back onto the thin pallet snugged up against one of the hut's brick walls.
"No, no he's not," Evie pushed forward to stand at her husband's shoulder. "That was Ancient Egyptian, Rick."
"You're kidding me." Incredulity stained every word, shining bright in Rick's face.
Jonathan couldn't tear his eyes from the – tortured – man in front of them, the same horrified fascination he felt with a rifle in his hands filling him now. And he was all too conscious of his nephew, a boy too clever by half, listening around his own shock and terror.
"What did he say?" Rick continued. Relentless.
Jonathan stepped forward, shoulder-to-shoulder with his sister and her husband, pushing Alex behind him and taking a wincing look at the limp form. Familiarity arced through him like a live current, surprising him into silence. I know him. How do I –
"He swore," she said carefully.
Evie's never 'careful'. Up close, he could see the glint of a chain peeking out from the open collar of Fletcher's shirt. Jonathan frowned.
"Evie. What did he say?"
"A'a hemet-nesew?"
Every muscle in his body jerked. Gods. When did he – Fletcher's eyes were opened now, unerringly fixed on Evie. Unease sat tightly in Jonathan's stomach at the glittering intensity in those eyes.
It bothered Rick too, if the way he stepped between the recumbent Fletcher and Evie was any indication.
"No, wait, Rick -"
"I want you out of here." Rick settled his hands on her shoulders, meeting her eyes. "I want you safe."
"I'm not safe anywhere," Evie responded, meeting her husband's gaze steadily.
"Sedjem en wi!" Fletcher pleaded, looking past them as if they didn't even exist, seeing no one but Evie.
In that moment Jonathan saw his sister lose herself again in the skin of an ancient Princess, and couldn't help but hate the man who made it happen.
She slipped past Rick, crouching close to Fletcher's head, hand settling soothingly over his. "Hetep, neb-i. Sedjem-i medew-tjen. Djed-i."
"Dewa-netjer," he breathed. Dark eyes suddenly radiated pain, and Jonathan felt like an unwelcome observer. At his side, Alex's grip loosened, the curiosity Evie had passed to her son peeking out from behind his fear. But Rick stepped forward now, swinging the boy into his arms, and Jonathan let that be enough. "Nenem-en-i."
Evie nodded, expression unchanging.
Jonathan kept the words foreign, although he had grown up knowing them in another life, had studied them in this one. He wasn't an ancient nobleman from Egypt, no matter their mother's blood. He was Jonathan Carnahan, and utterly bullocks at translating.
So his blood didn't run cold at Fletcher's next words. It didn't.
"Khefty-ek, khefty net per-a'a, a'nen-en er taway."
Evie gripped lax fingers, leaning forward urgently. "Tjen? Djed-i."
Fletcher's head rolled a little against the pallet, eyes distant. "Sekha-i ket."
"Djed-i," his sister demanded.
But the man was fading fast, blinking with exhaustion or heat stroke or both. "Iew binet hemsi-en deshret."
And Evie stroked his hair comfortingly, voice a low murmur in the dead silence of the hut. "Sedjer-ek, neb-i. Dewaw Ra ini-ef maw herew."
-----------------
Fletcher's eyes closed, whole body relaxing into unconsciousness.
Dammit. Rick kept one arm on Evie, drawing her up against him, and away from the prisoner. Alex had wrapped both legs around his waist, clinging to his neck like a monkey.
Behind them, canvas shushed – and he whirled, hand flying to his holster. Ardeth stopped just inside the doorway, taking in the scene.
"Did you find the man who threw the knife?" Evie stepped forward out of his hold, and Rick moved also, keeping pace with his wife.
The Medjai shook his head, face creasing in frustration. "We captured the assassin, but he attacked us in return. He is dead."
"Damn it," Rick snapped.
"Mahmud is checking the body now, but there are no tattoos, no brands or scars to identify him," Ardeth continued. The Medjai stepped to the side of the unconscious prisoner, gauging his condition with a critical eye. "I saw no mark like this one." He turned over one lax wrist, revealing the Aten scar. "We will give him water tonight, I think."
Rick saw the reason. He's no good to us dead.
"He spoke to us," Evie said quietly.
A black eyebrow arched. "He did?"
"In ancient Egyptian," she nodded. Alex moved to her side, nodding as well. "Yeah," he continued. "But it was weird, not they way it sounds from books at all."
The Medjai blinked, startled. "The spoken language of our ancestors has been lost for thousands of years. Your scholars have tried to put it together again, with some limited success."
Rick puzzled at the seeming non-sequitor for a moment. The language used by the ancients. Not the same as the way we interpret their language today. But Evie could speak with him. And Ahm Shere and his wife's strange memories – previous life – came rushing back to him. "Oh, no."
"But it makes perfect sense," gray eyes sparked with enthusiasm. "Why would I be the only one affected by the turning of the Egyptian new year, when the Scorpion King awoke? His challenge was extended to anyone who could kill him -"
Jonathan's voice cut through their soft conversation. "I say, chaps, have a look at this." He was bent low by Fletcher's head, tugging at something around the man's neck.
Jonathan! Rick stepped forward, wary of the prisoner waking, but his brother-in-law got the chain from around Fletcher's neck without incident, shifting back and peering at the object in the hut's low light.
Stepping closer, Rick hooked a finger in tiny metal links, lifting the necklace up from Jonathan's palm. On the chain were two circular metal disks, thin aluminum no larger than a pence coin. "Dogtags," he murmured, calluses rubbing over the tiny ingraining. He squinted at the writing, and stiffened.
"Mark O'Connell," Evie read the name that arced along the flat curve of the tag from around his shoulder. "First Lieutenant, Infantry N.A., USA."
"N.A.?" Jonathan scratched at brown hair.
Alex was wiggling closer, bouncing up on tip-toes to try to get a better look. Blue eyes shot wide at the name.
"National Army," Rick clarified, still feeling numb. He flipped the tag over, reading 317 M.G.BN. "Machine Gun Battalion."
"O'Connell?" Ardeth asked, surprised.
"It's a common name." Rick's mouth was dry. Would they take the subterfuge this far? Could they? What purpose would it serve?
Evie gave him a wry smile. "Not that common."
"Are those from the Great War, then, Dad?" Alex reached a hand up, and Rick passed them over. Even at eight, the boy was very much like his mother; as a budding archaeologist, there was no need to tell him to be careful.
"I think so," Rick nodded. He glanced to the unconscious form once more. No wonder he didn't break under torture. To survive that conflict, the man had to be tougher than he let on. But he was only a few years older than Rick himself. "He must have just been old enough to enlist."
"The Great War," Ardeth murmured, and Rick turned. The Medjai's face was drawn in concentration.
"America entered the fighting in 1918," Evie added. She'd wrapped one arm around Alex's shoulders, and he was rubbing a delicate finger over the dogtags, leaning into her body.
Ardeth's lips thinned. "That would be about sixteen years ago, yes?"
"Yeah, just about." Rick kept one eye on the prisoner. "Why?"
The Medjai folded his arms across his chest, one shoulder brushing against mud brick. "The scar on his wrist is old – sixteen years, by his telling. If he was truly in the Great War, it is unlikely he fell in with remnants of the Aten priesthood at that time."
"Unlikely but not impossible," Rick pointed out. But it does stretch the bounds of believability. The implication, that an Aten priesthood had existed with plans to kill Evie even then, pushed the theory still further into improbability.
Jonathan grunted. "But that still doesn't explain why these tags say his name is Mark O'Connell, when he introduced himself as Mark Fletcher."
He couldn't stop staring at the unconscious man, and he knew it was unnerving the others.
"Rick?" Evie tugged gently at his arm, and he turned to her, love and confusion warring within him. Always to her. Alex wrapped an arm as high as he could reach, face upturned, hugging his leg.
"I think we should get some water," Rick tried a smile for them, thought it felt weak. "And ask him."
-----------------
Light. Cool.
What . . . ?
The last memory he had was filled with burning thirst, unbearable heat, a bright burst of pain. The knowledge that he was dying, Ra a relentless burning torment in the sky, sand harsh against his bare feet . . . and then a ringing blow had pulled him from the memory. The ache was still there, localized in his split lip and bruised cheek, spreading throughout his body.
The next sensation Mark registered was wet – the crazed desire for water had eased, and there was a damp cloth resting across his forehead. Who?
The buzzing in his ears died away quickly as he brought a hand to his head, fighting the quicksand that seemed to grip every limb in lethargy. When it was gone he realized it for what it was. Conversation. Not alone. But as he blinked his eyes open he could feel that he was less Meren, now; the nobleman having retreated to the back of his mind in exhaustion.
"You're awake."
The man who had first interrogated him, who he suspected commanded his guards and many of the others Mark knew must live in the oasis. He only blinked, mind still struggling free from the last shreds of darkness.
He'd been moved.
The tent was light and airy, and there were goose-down pillows under him rather than a thin mat of woven grass and hard reeds. He'd been untied.
What's going on?
But he thought that maybe he knew, though he'd only heard stories about this. He hadn't been with the Germans long enough for them to move from physical games to mind games. Mark ignored the trembling in his muscles, shoving slowly upright. Immediately, a set of hands settled against his back, guiding him up.
But the gray eyes that met his weren't at all what he expected. Evelyn O'Connell, Curator of the British Museum, was holding out a cup. He could smell the water.
"Sewer-ek, khenmes," she offered softly.
At the sound of her voice, something in him was yanked to attention, lowering his head and turning his gaze to the floor. "Nebet-nesew, a'nkhew, senbew, wedjaw."
And just as quickly it faded away again, leaving Mark to jerk back, head snapping up, eyes wide. Damn. He'd mostly gotten used to having an ancient spymaster taking up residence in his brain, but that was the soul of the man and not the façade Meren threw into place when acting as a courtier. Not the manners and automatic obeisance and careful moderation of word and expression.
"Okay. That was weird," announced another voice. Mark looked, and found Rick O'Connell leaning against the main tentpole a few feet away. His distance from his wife was explained by the large knife he was whetting, blue eyes never leaving him.
"You're telling me," Mark muttered, words spilling free before he could censor himself. The heat had pulled that out of him, leaving him feeling oddly insubstantial and wrung thin as spun glass.
On O'Connell's other side, Alex and Carnahan were seated, staring at him curiously. Who brings their family to an interrogation?
Mark opened his mouth without knowing what was going to come out. "What the hell is this?"
"We were hoping you could tell us that, Mr. O'Connell," the Arab man said, positioned by tent flaps tied by crossed string.
Oh, damn. He reached for his collar, suddenly feeling the slight weight missing from around his neck. Rick O'Connell held up a hand, the gentle clink of metal almost lost beneath the sound of wind outside the tent. Mark scowled.
The tags were tossed his way; he caught them before they hit the ground-cover. "I was born Mark O'Connell," he admitted, clasping the chain around his neck. "My family died when I was a child. Fletcher was the name of the family that took me in; I've been using it longer than I've been using my birth name, especially when I'm on business for the ranch."
"And the tags?" Rick inquired coolly.
Mark met the blue stare with a dark one of his own, sliding the metal discs out of sight beneath his shirt. "If I was going to die, I wanted to be buried under my own name." Won't be that lucky this time around, I don't think.
Frozen blue refused to relent. "What about the scar on your wrist?"
God. It would all come down to that, wouldn't it? The irony surprised a harsh chuckle from him. "It's a long story." And it was downright frightening how much his history echoed with Meren's. Don't think on that now.
"We have time," Evelyn offered, voice quiet.
If someone really is trying to kill her, that's a lie. He couldn't look at her, not when he didn't know what reactions might be dredged up from the man inside him. But maybe, just maybe, they were actually listening, instead of trying to play with his head. Try. See what happens.
Mark took a deep breath. "When I was about seven, my parents and my younger brother went on a trip to Egypt." The why was unimportant, and he really didn't want to bring that up either; there would be no way they would trust him if he did, just by association. "I was recovering from the measles at the time. They left me with my father's closest friend, Adam Fletcher, and his family."
He shoved the memories back, pulling free only the pertinent details. "I got one package, two months into their trip. In it was a bronze disc with stylized rays ending in tiny hands – the Aten," he rubbed his wrist reflexively. "And a few letters. Then nothing, for weeks. They were planning to be gone for several months, so no one thought much of it when half a year had passed and they were still in Egypt. Finally, I got a telegram from a friend they had met up with in Cairo, informing me that they had contracted a fever and died."
Momma. Dad. No mention of his little brother, though. There never had been.
Memory crowded in on him, jabbering and cawing for attention. Mark swallowed, fixing his eyes determinedly on the middle space that hung empty between Rick O'Connell and himself. "I kept the disc on me then, for sentimental reasons. Forgot about it most of the time, to tell you the truth. I didn't realize I'd shipped out with it until I stopped some kid from picking my pocket in the trenches, first week in." This was the difficult part. "The third action my battalion saw was a disaster for our unit. The Germans swept through our line, and I was lucky enough to be captured instead of killed." Teeth bared in something less than a smile.
"They . . . questioned me for a few days, but I was low-level Infantry, didn't know much, and they weren't really interested even if I'd had anything to say. Which I didn't. The rest of the time they were just amusing themselves." He held up his wrist in the silence, letting the scar speak for itself. "Anyway, I never saw the thing again after that." One of his tormentors had probably pocketed it as a trophy, or taken it home to give to his girl.
"You knew it was the Aten," Carnahan pointed out, breaking the flow of thought. At his side young Alex nodded, though the boy was frowning in thought.
Unbelievable. "I can read," Mark flung back. He let himself slump back against goose-down, the telling having drained from him what little the ravaging heat and dehydration hadn't touched.
"I'm more interesting in finding out where you learned to speak ancient Egyptian," his sister interjected.
Great. Just . . . great. How to explain this? I can't even make myself believe it, half the time. Mark rubbed a hand over his face, at a loss.
"You started having dreams," she continued quietly. Goose-down rustled as she leant forward, elbows propped on crossed legs. "About four months ago, it would be now. Vivid ones. And then they started happening while you were awake."
He went very still, shock freezing his blood. After a long moment of silence, Mark licked dry lips, and looked up. "How do you know that?"
"So it's true," O'Connell muttered, knuckles whitening on the knife handle.
Mark's jaw clenched. Fiends of the netherworld! He knew better than to give away anything so easily.
Raising the blade as if examining the edge, blue eyes shot to his and held. O'Connell's face was bland, as pleasant as if he was holding conversation over his breakfast table – except for the edge of danger sliding through his tone. "So in your past life, you were a member of the priesthood of the Aten?"
"What?" Mark's jaw dropped, Meren's affront washing into disbelief. Past life? "You're insane."
The Arab stepped forward, and Mark didn't know his name or his face, but that movement was so familiar. . . He tilted his head, searching his memories.
Then the man spoke. "No," he was resting one hand thoughtfully on the long ivory handle of a wickedly curved blade. "I know you, somehow." Black eyes widened. "Neb-i Meren?"
Memory tumbled loose; Mark gasped. Abu?
A/N2 & Translations: A note here. I have no idea of the sentence structure used in Ancient Egyptian, so I used the same word order that you'd find in English, except where the site I used as a dictionary indicated otherwise. And in two cases – the words met and nebew-nesew – I completely made up the word. There are a number of other grammatical and technical problems with this Egyptian as well which I won't go into here (most of which are down to me), but just so you know, it's in no way accurate at all.
Met en tjen – death to you.
A'a hemet-nesew – Great Royal Wife
Sedjem en wi! – Listen to me!
Hetep, neb-i. Sedjem-i medew-tjen. Djed-i. – Peace, my lord. I hear your words. Tell me.
Dewa-netjer – thank god.
Nenem-en-i - I made a mistake.
Khefty-ek, khefty net per-a'a, a'nen-en er taway – Your enemy, the enemy of Pharaoh, has returned to the Black Lands.
Tjen? Djed-i. – Where? Tell me.
Sekha-i ket – I remember little.
Iew binet hemsi-en deshret – Evil lives in the desert.
Sedjer-ek, neb-i. Dewaw Ra ini-ef maw herew. – Sleep, my lord. Tomorrow Ra brings a new day.
Sewer-ek, khenmes – Drink, friend.
Nebet-nesew, a'nkhew, senbew, wedjaw – Majesty, life, health, prosperity. (a greeting)
Hundesohn – (German) – son of a bitch
Neb-i Meren – My Lord Meren