"I will not have the guards just go into the market and randomly select a servant for me," the prince said stubbornly. "I don't want someone just snatched off the street."
"It is just a servant," Nkosi, one of Pharaoh's priests, pointed out. "Any man, woman, and child would be honored to serve you. And if they displease you, they can simply be punished or replaced."
Atem folded his arms. "I desire a companion, not a slave. I want someone my own age!"
"That can be arranged," Baruti, another priest, said soothingly. "There is no need for you to visit the city in person."
Atem fixed him with a piercing stare. He knew the effect was magnified by the peculiar color of his eyes.
Ramla laughed. The Millennium Necklace glimmered around her throat. "I think you could more easily persuade the waters of the Nile to change to gold than change the prince's mind, Baruti." She shook her head, still smiling. "I have never met anyone so stubborn."
Atem favored her with a glowing smile, then turned with a pleading expression to his father. "Father?"
Pharaoh Aknankamon frowned, considering. "I fear you will be disappointed in your desire, Atem. Peasants, or even merchants' sons, cannot be proper companions for a child of royal blood."
Atem straightened his shoulders. His head lifted to a regal tilt, his crimson eyes burned with determination. "You told me once, Father, that a king must know his own people if he is to rule them. How can I get to know them if I am constantly kept separate? And if I am to be Pharaoh someday, surely I can select my own companion?"
Pharaoh nodded once in approval. His son was becoming a man indeed. "Very well, but you must take a full guard with you." He gestured to the right. "Shimon will accompany you as well." The advisor stepped forward.
Atem smiled at the kindly old man, but inwardly his heart was sinking. What he had said was true: he did want to get to know the people he would one day rule. He was also perceptive enough to realize that that would be impossible surrounded by guards and under constant vigilance by Shimon.
But he also knew that this was the most he would get from his father now, so he simply bowed and left the room.
First things first. Get to the city.
"It still refuses to choose."
Aknankamon stared at his brother, whose eyes were fixed firmly on the golden glimmer of the Millennium Rod. The one-eyed priest continued. "As long as it remains un-bonded, the powers of the others are reduced."
"What can we do?" Pharaoh asked.
Aknadin shrugged. "Very little is known about the Millennium Items. But it is clear that this one has a will of its own. It will allow no one to wield it save the one it chooses."
Aknankamon winced. The last man who had attempted to use the Rod had been shredded by its power, his insides melting, his bones crunching as they splintered, the skin bubbling and popping. His screaming had so traumatized some of the servants that Pharaoh was forced to dismiss them. One of the guards who had witnessed the event had shortly thereafter committed suicide.
The memory hurt. The priest who had died, Chibale, had been a close personal friend of Pharaoh. His loss had been sincerely mourned. Since then, the Millennium Rod had been kept in a kind of solitary confinement, locked away in a room protected by powerful wards.
"So we wait?" he asked grimly.
"We wait."
As prince of Egypt and sole heir to the throne, Atem received the respect, if not always the adulation, of the entire populace. People knelt before him as his guards carried him through the streets, vendors gave him free samples of their sweetest pastries, their finest bolts of cloth, their most delicate wares. The streets were swept and cleared when he rode through the city, and women threw fragrant flowers before him and begged for his blessing on their children.
As just another scrawny peasant's brat on the street, his telltale hair hidden by a hood and his princely garments replaced by servant's clothes, Atem found the city quite different. No one made way for him, merchants cuffed him sharply if he strayed too close to their booths, and twice he was nearly knocked from his feet as some careless passerby shoved him unceremoniously aside. The street was filled with dust and muck, and his thin sandals – another part of his disguise – were soon caked with both. Instead of the hushed streets that usually awaited him, they were almost deafeningly loud, filled with the raucous laughter and heated conversations of thousands of people. The smell was not one of flowers. Atem wandered almost at random along the road, drinking it all in.
Suddenly, a hand grabbed his arm and a man leaned in. The sickly smell of him made Atem gag. It reminded him somewhat of the wine Baruti liked to drink with dinner, but...wrong, sour. "What's beneath the hood?" he growled. "What are you hiding?"
"Nothing." He shot the man a cold glare under the hood and tried to pull away, but the man caught the hood with one hand and made to toss it back. It snagged for a moment on the prince's wild head of hair, and in that moment, Atem made a decision. His magic rose. The hood fell back.
The man released him, looking disappointed. "Nothing but an ordinary peasant," he grumbled. "Why are you bundled up so in this heat?"
Privately, Atem breathed a sigh of relief. Glamours were notoriously difficult. "Do you treat everyone this way?" he demanded. "Don't you..." Don't you know who I am? "Don't you have any manners?"
The man bristled. "I won't stand for that from you!" He lunged, but his movement was slow and clumsy. Atem easily avoided it. The man swore - a vile curse - and turned. This time, Atem stood his ground, head lifted. This man dared to confront him?
If you kill him, a voice whispered in his head, you will have to reveal who you are.
At the last second, he slipped to the side. The man stumbled. By the time he righted himself, Atem had disappeared into the crowd.
He wasn't sure at what point he became aware he was being followed.
But he was. Two boys, dressed in ragged street clothes like himself, filthy, gaunt, and barefoot, trailed along not far behind. And they were steadily gaining.
Atem looked around. Another boy was hurrying towards him from the left, crowding him towards the side of the road. Atem sped up; they did as well. His legs were shorter than theirs. Outrunning them was probably not an option. Nor was it an option he desired. His anger at being ill-treated all morning rose. One problem, the voice in his head - the logical part of him perhaps - said coolly. You don't know anything about streetfighting. What are you going to do? Kill them with magic in the open street? You will be revealed.
Not if I don't face them on the street. There was an alley on the right. Atem veered into it. The three boys followed, wide smiles spreading across their faces at the thought that they had trapped their prey. A few steps in, Atem turned, legs planted firmly, and waited.
They advanced slowly, perhaps balked by his apparent lack of fear. They stood there for a moment or two, sizing each other up. The taller boy, who had a wicked scar across his nose and cheek, spoke first.
"The new boy thinks he can pass through our territory without paying a toll," he said, then laughed. "Do you know what we did to the last new boy who didn't pay the toll?"
A part of Atem grieved at the thought of these boys' deaths. But as heir to the throne, his honor would not allow him to give in.
"Something crude and uneducated, I presume," he said dismissively. "You clearly lack the intelligence to do much better."
The leader's face went dark with anger and he stalked forward, his cronies at his side. Atem held his ground. When they were only a few feet away, he called the Shadows.
But an instant before he could release them on his attackers, a sharp pain erupted on the back of his head and stars danced before his eyes. His hold on the Shadows fled and his knees buckled. He struck the ground face-first, unable to bring up his hands in time to stop his fall.
Ra, there are more of them.
A rough hand grabbed at his arms and hauled him to his feet. A fist impacted in his gut, and he doubled over with a groan, saved from falling again by the boy holding him from behind. He desperately tried to reach his magic through the pain and nausea, but it was like trying to catch hold of a cloud.
"You dare talk back to us?" Scarface demanded, hitting him again, harder. Atem retched emptily. "We'll leave your body for the dogs!"
"Leave him alone."
The three boys in front of Atem whirled around, and the one behind him tensed. Atem tried to focus on the newcomer, but the sun was at the other boy's back and his face was still in shadow. But he did hear all four's startled intake of breath.
"Seth," Scarface muttered.
The new boy took a few steps forward, and Atem was finally able to make out his face. The boy's face was gaunt with starvation, and like the others, his clothes were little more than rags. But there was an indefinable something that set him apart from the others, some kind of inner nobility or poise that made him seem as different from them as the Pharaoh was from the lowest of his slaves.
"This doesn't concern you," Scarface called out as Seth took another step towards the group. "Walk away."
Seth did not reply, only took a few steps closer. The boy holding Atem shifted uneasily, and the prince heard one of the others mutter, "I don't like this, Ryuk. You saw what he did to Odji…"
"Shut up!" Ryuk snapped. "There are four of us and only one of him."
Another stunning blow to the back of Atem's head sent him reeling to his knees as the boy released him and roughly shoved him aside. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
Seth didn't bother to wince as the other boy collapsed. If the idiot lived through this, he should be happy with nothing but a few bruises. There were four of them, as Ryuk had so cleverly pointed out. Unfortunately, as he had also pointed out, there was only one of Seth.
All in all, not the best odds.
Then they all drew knives.
Part of him, the part dedicated to his survival, told him he should run. There was no reason to risk his life for a total stranger. But something made him stay. Perhaps it was the memory of his mother's voice, scolding him for mocking one of the weaker boys in the village and reminding him of the value of compassion.
The first boy charged and lifted his blade in an overhand strike. Seth dodged and drove his elbow as hard as he could into the boy's solar plexus. The boy collapsed with an oof! and Seth kicked him in the head on the way down. His attacker groaned and was out cold. But Seth had no time to celebrate, because the others weren't as stupid as the first. They spread out to cut off his retreat, driving him towards a wall, making short feinting jabs to keep him at bay. Seth dodged a blow aimed at his ribs and cursed. He remembered the merchant choking as the whip tightened around his throat, and he remembered the horror of the magic running wild, unable to draw it back. He hesitated.
But there wasn't much time for reflection. The three boys had nearly driven him up against the wall. Their victim had still not moved, and if he didn't wake up soon, it was unlikely that he ever would.
And after all this effort, that would be…irritating.
He made a decision. The magic was already churning inside him, held back by only the most slender of threads. All he had to do was let it go.
It was as though the sun had disappeared. It grew dark, and very, very cold. The boys screamed in fear and pain as they were scooped off their feet and thrown with bone-breaking force into the wall. Seth barely heard them; he was already trying to rein the magic back.
He felt his control breaking an instant before it happened. With savage glee, the magic leapt across the intervening space. It burrowed into the motionless bodies of Seth's attackers, tearing the skin and exposing bone.