The door to Rishid's immaculate bedroom creaked open loudly courtesy of the servant in the lead. The men carried Marik inside, each regarding the boy with a look of suspicion but knowing that they had to obey their king's orders. It was true that Marik seemed harmless enough, but they were aware that appearances could be deceiving. Each of the four servants muttered a silent prayer that Rishid knew what he was doing. He had ruled for only several weeks by their time, and though he seemed wise, they knew he was still slightly uncomfortable with the position of king. Perhaps some of his ideas would be off-base.
The electric chandelier overhead clicked on automatically as soon as the door was opened and it bathed its soft glow over those entering. It cast its light upon Marik's tired and sad face and Rishid carefully brushed the boy's long bangs aside to study this strange, unconscious enigma that had dropped into his life. His body was here, but his mind—which held possible answers to Rishid's unknown past—was somewhere else entirely. The boy was so close . . . and yet so far away. . . .
As Rishid's memories were. He was about twenty-five years old. And he only recalled five weeks out of those twenty-five years. That wasn't much at all. What had happened in the rest of his life? Where had he been? What had he learned? . . . What people had he known and loved? Was . . . was Marik . . . could he have been one of them?
"My lord! My lord! A letter just came from Moghur!"
Rishid looked up from the throne room he was still trying to get used to. He had only been the king for six days, and everything was so strange. Somehow he felt so out of place in the palace, as if he had never lived a royal life before. But that was impossible. He would have had to have always lived in such a way to be heir to the throne.
And yet he was so in awe of everything in the palace . . . the spacious rooms, the elaborate furniture, the expensive, frivolous add-ons. . . . It was because he had gotten complete amnesia from the attack on him and his father, he was told, and of course that was plausible, and had Rishid been a naive person, he might have believed that. But Rishid wasn't naive and he felt that there was more than what he was being told. But for now, not knowing anything else to do, he had accepted the throne of Juno. And, not knowing who he could trust—if anyone—he was becoming extremely cold and emotionless outwardly. It was the only way he felt he could handle this experience until his memories had returned to him.
"Yes? And what does this letter say?" Rishid asked this messenger now, snapping back to the present and raising steely eyes to meet his.
"They've been attacked in Moghur too, my lord!" the messenger wailed, wringing his hands frantically. "This mysterious zealot has struck again and wasted half the village!"
Rishid put his fingers on the bridge of his nose and pressed hard, feeling a headache coming on. He didn't know what to do about this zealot. Over the last day, he had been educated in the fact that this person—whoever he was—attacked a different village once or twice every week, but never on the same days of the week. Everyone in the kingdom lived in terror wondering where the next target would be. The assassin left a trail of pure destruction and blood wherever he went, earning him the nickname of "Red Zealot" by some. Those who survived his mad attacks couldn't describe him. It always varied. He was short, he was tall. He was young, he was old. Rishid wondered if they were just too frightened to be able to tell it accurately . . . or if there could be more than one Red Zealot.
"How long has this been going on?" Rishid boomed loudly now. There were so many problems he suddenly had to deal with. . . . And he didn't know how to handle any of them, especially the Red Zealot. How could he fix a crisis such as this? People were dying by the number nearly every day, and it was always in a place that the kingdom's armies were not in, no matter how Rishid tried to evenly distribute them around to protect each village! But . . . he could have sworn he had assigned some to Moghur. . . .
"For . . . for months, my lord," the messenger boy informed him nervously, twisting his feathered cap about in his hands. "Your father perished when he was trying so hard to stop the scoundrel." Everyone in the palace knew about Rishid's amnesia and tried to help him whenever they could by supplying information about his "past." Rishid appreciated it at times, but now he found the reminder simply irritating.
"Months?" Rishid clenched his fists. "How is anyone even still alive at all!"
The messenger swallowed hard, unable to think of a good answer.
Rishid waved him away then. "Never mind. Leave me." He wanted time to think. Time to try to work out a plan. As long as he was being king, he knew he had to. He couldn't not take the responsibility.
It wasn't long before he was looking over the official record from when he had assigned the kingdom's soldiers to the villages most vulnerable. He scrolled through the pages desperately, questions tumbling over themselves in his mind. Halfway down the third leaf, he found what he was looking for. A name jumped out at him.
Moghur.
Moghur was on the list, as he had thought. Rishid had sent soldiers there, but they had never arrived. Why not? What had happened to them? It was another of the strange mysteries in this seemingly cursed land, and no matter who Rishid spoke to or where he searched for answers, he found none. It seemed that an entire regiment had disappeared without a trace.
"Lord Odion?"
Rishid started back to the present and looked down at Marik again. Still the boy didn't look familiar, but still Rishid was drawn to him. And Rishid knew all the more that Marik didn't seem as though he could be the Red Zealot. The fact was that Rishid sensed nothing evil about him at all. And one such as the Red Zealot, who killed anyone and everyone, including innocents, must have such a darkness about him that it could be sensed instantly.
"Are you alright, my lord?" the servant asked, peering over at him.
"Of course," Rishid retorted harshly, straightening up and glancing around the room. There was no need for him to explain his inward feelings. He never would, not to this person. And now he had other things to put his mind to.
The furniture was all crafted of an expensive and rare pine and was decorated with trim of gold. Silk curtains at the windows were drawn. Sometimes Rishid would look out at the kingdom when he was unable to sleep, pondering over his destiny and his elusive memories, but usually he preferred to keep the curtains closed. Now he walked purposefully to the bed and pulled the down comforter back.
"Lay the boy on the bed," he ordered, "and then leave us." Opening a drawer, Rishid took out a medical supplies kit from a desk drawer and then washed his hands in the expansive bathroom before taking out the items from the kit that he would need.
Fredric, one of Rishid's most trusted servants, stared at him in disbelief at this order as he brought out bandages and antiseptic cloths. Marik was still suspected of being the traitor who had been destroying the kingdom piece by piece. And their king was planning to stay alone in the room with him to treat his wounds himself? Not only that, but he was willing to give the stranger his bed? Fredric had never known Rishid to do anything of the sort since he had become the ruler. "My lord? Are you certain that's wise?" the short, nervous man ventured to ask. He wanted to add, Why on earth do you want to help this possible traitor! but he restrained himself. He knew it wasn't his place.
But Rishid already seemed to think Fredric had overstepped his bounds. The tall Egyptian whirled on him angrily. "Do you question me? Even if this child is the traitor, he is too weak to do anything. He is practically dead!" Rishid towered over Fredric's form and the other man swallowed hard, wondering what was to be done with him now. "I could overpower him in less than a minute. And I could do the same to you if you continue to cross me. Now do as I say and lay him on the bed, or I will do it for you!" He was tired of all this—being king, ordering servants around, and not truly knowing who he was. The emptiness was overwhelming. Despite everyone's seeming kindness toward him, Rishid sensed that most in the palace didn't truly like him. But now, for the first time in ages, he felt a connection to someone. Rishid felt drawn to this boy. There was something about him that made Rishid want to protect him, to never allow him to be hurt again. Rishid liked the feeling in one way and was confused and irritated by it in another.
Fredric bowed low, realizing that he had been let off with a mere warning. "Y-yes, my lord," he said. "Of . . . of course. My deepest apologies." Any of the previous kings would have had him killed right then and there for insolence, he realized. Perhaps Rishid truly was different from the others.
Shakily the servants wrapped Marik's body in a rough cloth and laid him on the bed. They were quite leery of Rishid whenever he got like this, and they knew he had the power and strength to carry out any threats he might give them. They couldn't know that Rishid was normally gentle . . . that he normally would harm no one. For as long as they remembered, their kings had been harsh and unkind, including the one who had come before Rishid. And Rishid often seemed just as cruel to them, though Fredric was having some seconds thoughts on that now after being allowed to live after his remarks.
The man they hailed as their ruler wasn't finished with them yet, however. Carefully he turned Marik onto his stomach in order to clean the wounds covering his back—which were the most severe—and then he looked up. "Does he have a shirt?" Rishid growled. After seeing the way the guard had been treating him, Rishid was certain that one of them must have stolen Marik's shirt in order to inflict all the more pain by laying the weapons against the boy's bare flesh.
He had seen it done so many times in the courtyard. The soldiers would take it upon themselves to whip anyone they found "misbehaving," whether they had the king's permission or not. Of course Rishid would always discipline them harshly for it, but that didn't seem to bother the rest. They continued acting on their own minds anyway. Rishid knew they didn't respect him.
One of the guards—tall, lanky, and gentle David—stepped forward then, holding the lavender cloth out. "Here it is, my lord," he replied, having taken it back from the one who had been beating Marik earlier. He was the only one who hadn't agreed with the harsh treatment being bestowed upon the poor youth and was eager to help the boy in any way he could now. Marik reminded him of his own younger brother, whom he treasured so dearly.
Rishid nodded slightly. David was just about the only guard he trusted in the whole lot of them. He knew that man had a family that he prized above all else and that he never was involved in the beating of any person, nor had he ever disobeyed or ignored Rishid's orders. "Take and wash it and his other clothes for him," Rishid directed coldly. "There is blood all over them."
He had caught a glimpse of some strange hieroglyphics underneath the red liquid on Marik's back and was extremely perplexed by that, but he didn't intend to investigate until they were alone as he had requested. He couldn't help immediately thinking of the strange marks on his own face and wondering if there was a connection. Rishid didn't know why he had those marks. Had he wanted them? Or had they been forced upon him as this kingdom had been? Those in the palace hadn't even attempted to try explaining what the tattoos meant at first, but then one had tried to convince Rishid that he had them because all heirs to the throne did. He might have believed that, except there was nothing remotely resembling the hieroglyphics anywhere in the palace. So he had decided they must mean something else.
The kindhearted guard now accepted his task and left with Marik's shirt and pants. Once the others met with Rishid's smoldering gaze, they made their hasty departure as well, leaving the two alone as the man had commanded.
The door closed behind the richly-dressed king with a loud bang capable of rousing the dead, but he barely noticed. Instead he resumed his self-appointed task, gently dabbing an antiseptic cloth across Marik's back—removing the blood and hopefully anything harmful as well. There were so many wounds. . . . The deep lashes from a whip . . . claw marks from a vicious beast . . . harsh bruises and cuts from a fall and from the beating with the spear. . . . And underneath the blood were, indeed, many hieroglyphics carved right into the youth's flesh. Rishid ran his hand over them grimly and then touched those adorning the left side of his face. So strange. . . . What was their purpose? What did they say? What did they mean?
Carefully Rishid applied ointment to the wounds and then began to bandage them up. Marik jerked slightly at the sting, but didn't regain consciousness.
"Be still," Rishid growled low, but he found he wasn't truly angry or irritated. Instead he was quite concerned. He didn't want the boy to jar the wounds and make them worse. Marik looked like he'd been beaten literally half to death. And the fact that anyone would hurt him so badly infuriated Rishid to no end. Any incessant torture of a human being made Rishid angry, but when this boy was harmed, Rishid's anger was increased a hundredfold.
Without quite realizing it, he soon found himself conversing quite freely with the youth, though no replies were able to be given. But somehow that didn't seem to matter.
"Who are you?" Rishid murmured then. "You're such a strange boy. There are so many mysteries surrounding you . . . and myself as well." Gently he turned Marik on his side to clean the wounds in his chest. Why did the torment of this boy anger him so?
"I don't know who I am. Not completely. But I know I do not care for this lifestyle. It doesn't seem . . . like me," Rishid finished at last. "It doesn't seem like something I would want. Somehow . . . somehow I believe that . . . that I would want a more humble life." Ever since awakening in the palace, he had been uncomfortable with the extravagance and riches. And he had heard people talking behind his back, spreading rumors about how much the kings indulged in. But he didn't want to indulge in anything. He was forced to dress in the robes and jewelry of royalty—silks and satins, rings with rare gems encrusted in them—and he had access to all of the palace treasures and many kinds of exotic foods and pleasures, but it wasn't what he enjoyed. He didn't like being made to feel that he was so much better than everyone else.
As the king, he was also supposed to wear a crown of sorts—something that was similar to the crown/tiara Marik had worn at the beginning of Battle City, though Rishid didn't remember that, of course—but Rishid had discarded that item. He looked at it sometimes from where he had set it in a corner of the bedroom, but he never wore it. His servants sometimes tried to convince himself into doing so, but he hadn't listened in the past and he didn't intend to do so now. "I don't need to wear a crown to be king," he always told them. "If I can do something good for the kingdom, then and only then am I a king."
Again he thought how everything seemed so out of place. Perhaps . . . perhaps he almost wished this boy truly was his brother. Then he would know someone truly loved and wanted him. He would know that he truly had a place to belong.
"Why am I speaking to you?" he said then in irritation as he cleansed his hands of the poor boy's blood and then looked for something soft and warm to dress him in until his own clothes were returned. He soon uncovered a robe made of wine-colored velvet and began helping Marik into it.
Carefully he took the youth's right arm and pulled it through the sleeve. Marik didn't move, obviously still badly hurt and possibly in shock from all he had come through. Rishid shook his head as the feelings of protectiveness again surged over him. "You cannot hear me and yet I speak to you. I barely met you, and yet . . . I am drawn to you. I don't want you to be harmed any more. You seem like someone whom I should protect. But why? Why do I have this need to protect you!" Marik still didn't stir at all and Rishid sighed to himself.
After he finished helping Marik into the robe, Rishid laid him back into the soft covers. He wouldn't worry about finding a place for himself to sleep tonight. He knew he would never be falling asleep, not with this boy in the palace walls. So instead he would observe this stranger for the remaining hours of the night.
Marik moved a bit now, curling up on his side and burrowing into the pillow. Rishid chuckled in spite of himself. Already he seemed fond of the teen. He seemed so innocent when he slept. Whether he truly was innocent was another matter, Rishid knew.
He had seen so many emotions in those deep lavender eyes. Sorrow, pain, anguish, and agony, among others. Marik obviously had seen much in his young life, most of which probably hadn't been good, but he still had a heart. Rishid now couldn't believe for one minute that this boy was the Red Zealot.
Slowly Marik opened his eyes halfway and tried to focus. When he saw Rishid he gave him a genuine smile, though he wasn't truly awake. Their recent encounter had faded away in his mind. He was with his brother. That was all that mattered. He was with his precious older brother, who had saved him. As he had always done.
Rishid gazed into this sweet face and realized something with a start. The boy trusted him. Marik trusted him with his very life. It was obvious in his smile.
It was a strange feeling . . . to know someone idolized him that much. . . . True, Rishid was responsible for the lives of everyone in the kingdom and they seemed to look up to him. . . . But that was different. "Seemed" was the key word. Rishid was certain none of them were truly sincere. The boy was, however. He might be insane—Rishid still wasn't decided on that—but at any rate, he honestly believed Rishid was his brother. The man saw it in the sweet lavender eyes. And he did something he hadn't done in what seemed ages.
He smiled back.
Marik smiled a bit more and then closed his eyes completely, sinking back into a deep unconsciousness.
Rishid pulled the quilt up around the boy's shoulders, moving the long hair away from his nose and mouth. "Rest peacefully, Marik . . . whoever you may be," this lost soul whispered gruffly.
Confusion . . . confusion and pain. . . . He had endured the pain for so long . . . as long as he possibly could. Then he had succumbed to the blanket of oblivion. But even then, he could still sense things. . . . He could still hear . . . he could still feel.
Rishid was caring for him. Marik felt his brother's hands on his flesh, cleaning and bandaging the wounds and tucking him into the covers. The man had made it clear that he didn't know who Marik was, but Marik was still comforted by the fact that Rishid was still his normal, kind self deep down—despite the tough exterior he was showing now. Marik could sympathize with this, as he himself had often struggled to hide his true self behind a mask when he felt lost and alone. And he was certain that's how Rishid was feeling now.
And so Marik had managed to open his eyes and smile up at him. It was a gesture of thanks for coming to his aid when he needed help so badly . . . for always being there . . . for always being his brother. Marik had already forgiven Rishid for the pain the man had inflicted on him earlier. He knew Rishid hadn't actually been purposely trying to hurt him—that had become obvious when the ruler had taken the spear from the sadistic guard and had broken it in half. Rishid still cared.
Marik now was rewarded for his smile when Rishid smiled back—and for a split second before the boy was sent back into oblivion and his memories, he felt that his brother still did remember and love him.
"You? You're the boy I am to face?"
Marik looked up at the silhouetted figure in front of him. "I don't know," he growled in reply. "I am to face Apolla, the guardian of the dragon's lair." He clutched the Millennium Rod tightly in his hand, ignoring the blood dripping from where a vicious and strange animal had attacked him earlier.
A throaty chuckle echoed through the air. "Then our deathmatch should begin." She stepped out of the darkness, her shoulder-length sea green hair being tussled in the breeze. Marik was vaguely reminded of a character he'd seen on a TV show while flipping through the channels one night. The personality, however, seemed quite different from that character and more like another. But Marik would match this Apolla's coldness with his own.
Slowly he unsheathed the dagger from the Millennium Rod and held it up. "By all means," he vowed. "This match has started."
Apolla smiled, showing her sharp, nearly wolf-like teeth and not being bothered by Marik's choice of weapon. It would only make things more interesting. "You realize the terms and conditions, yes?" She stroked her blade almost lovingly. Her clothes were tattered, torn, and covered with recent blood—hers or her last opponent's, Marik didn't know. But he did know about Apolla's "conditions."
"Those who are worthy and intelligent enough to defeat you may pass through," Marik reported, his gaze never wavering from Apolla's piercing dark eyes. "But those who are unworthy . . . will be defeated and may die." He hadn't been idly searching for his siblings without a plan—he had carefully researched this land since arriving. He know every legend, every village, every possible existing clue to his precious sister and brother. And he would go to the ends of any earth to find them. He wasn't afraid of Apolla. And he wasn't afraid to die.
But he wouldn't die. He would fight Apolla and win.
Apolla smiled at him now—an eerie smile that seemed to be saying, Welcome to your death! "You're only a boy, but you've got spirit and spunk," she hissed. "I've seen many like you. They've all perished now. Very quickly too. You see . . ." She lunged forward with her sword and Marik met it head-on with his dagger. "They were also impulsive. They charged into things without thinking." She broke free and then lunged again, aiming to stab at Marik's heart. Stopping the tip only centimeters away, she gave him an unearthly smirk. She had met so many kinds of people throughout the years. Oh, occasionally one would actually defeat her and get through, but most always no one was smart or clever enough to get past the great Apolla.
She had gotten many different reactions to her fake stabbing trick. Some would start perspiring and swallowing loudly with agitation. Others would begin to shake until their entire bodies were as bundles of nerves. And yet others would be like this boy—defiant and cold. Marik wasn't the first to take this approach. But something inside her said that this youth would be among the few privileged to get past her.
"I won't," Marik told her now. He had remained completely calm and still while the sword was pointed at his heart. Apolla wouldn't kill him yet; she was testing him. And he had passed. His siblings' futures depended on his ability to get through this Heaven-forsaken land, and he wasn't going to do anything that would stop him from accomplishing that.
Again and again Marik relived the sword fight in his dreams. Apolla had pulled away and then lunged abruptly, beginning the battle. Marik had blocked her attempt and then had lunged forward himself. Their blades interlocked together many times, the clanging sounds ringing across the sparse and once beautiful meadow—a place that had seen so much sadness and bloodshed in its time. The grass, once green, since had become brown and coated in layers of blood, shed freely by many unfortunate souls over the course of time. The trees, which had once been lush and full of bright leaves, now stood petrified and bare, the result of a tragic fire five years previous. New blood had splashed across the blackened trunks as Marik had managed to slice into Apolla's shoulder. Then the woman had returned the favor, plowing her sword into Marik's chest.
"Well, boy, it seems you're done in now," Apolla smiled sadistically as she pulled the sword out from Marik's flesh.
The boy watched as his blood dripped onto the dead grass. Pain was exploding through his poor body. Every part of him felt as if it were on fire. But he couldn't allow himself to be defeated now. He had come so far! Apolla would not triumph over him!
And so he struggled to stand again. "No," he said coldly. "I'm not dead yet and I won't die until my brother and sister are safe! Don't declare this battle over until it's over." Again he raised the dagger. True, perhaps he would fare better if he had an actual sword, but he hadn't been able to locate one anywhere in this kingdom. He knew he had to trust in his ability to win this fight without one.
"Oh?" Apolla drew back, leaning on her sword momentarily as she watched him. He was different from the others, she knew again. He would fight to the bitter end, but he wouldn't accept that end until he actually wasn't breathing any longer—and even then, she felt that he would keep fighting for life and for victory anyway. "My mistake then, boy. You're right—this battle is far from over!" She charged forward again, cutting into Marik's shoulder, but that was the extent of the damage she was able to inflict upon him.
Marik moved with lightning speed, despite his wounds. He forced himself to ignore all pain as he abruptly struck Apolla's blade and knocked it from her hand.
She watched it fly, seeming surprised at first. It landed harmlessly in the grass many feet away with a clang of culmination.
"Now," Marik said quietly, "you have no weapon."
"I don't?"
Marik suddenly felt a searing pain in his left leg and looked down to see a hidden knife that Apolla had attached to her own leg by the handle. He hadn't seen it before, as it had been concealed under the woman's flowing skirt. But with the blade extended, all she had to do was get close enough to him to step forward and cause the knife to plunge through his flesh. Only an expert with blades could do such a feat without injuring themselves with the knife in the process.
"A true swordsman will be prepared for any and all tricks," Apolla whispered as she stepped back. Some might call this act of hers cheating or unfair, but she herself simply saw it as a way to separate the strong from the weak.
Now she drew a dagger of her own, watching while Marik leaned heavily on his uninjured leg and refused to allow himself to pass out. "I doubt you were prepared for mine," she purred. "Ready to give up yet? You look about done in. I could get you medical attention if you surrender now. But if you keep going, I can't guarantee that you'll last." Marik entranced her in a way. She wondered just how long he would be able to stand fighting with the deep, painful wounds she had given him. Not to mention the fact that he was already weak from barely having been able to find any food since his arrival.
"If I ever give up on my siblings and surrender, then I will be truly weak," Marik retorted. It was next to impossible for him to stand upright, but he was determined that he would. He didn't care how much pain he felt. He didn't care what he had to go through. All of it would be worth it if he could find that Ishizu and Rishid were alive and well. He had put his whole heart and soul into this quest, and, as Apolla had predicted, not even death could stop him now.
"Then prove your strength to me!" Apolla screamed as she lunged.
On the wall, the shadows of two blurs met, their daggers crashing. They moved back slightly in a sort of morbid dance, twisting and weaving with their blades. Then one shadow drew back in pain, clutching the handle of its weapon. But one final blow knocked it away, the attacker moving in and pressing cold metal against the other's throat. It was over.
Apolla met Marik's clear, steady gaze, her dark eyes proud and triumphant. There was at least one more soul fated for greatness who had crossed her path. She always felt a certain satisfaction and happiness when she found one such. As long as there were headstrong people fighting for good causes, the world would continue to survive.
Slowly Marik lowered the dagger and slipped it back into its sheath. He had won. He was injured, so very weak, and almost at the point of collapse, but he had won. "I want my siblings," he said low, his voice commanding. That was all he cared about. He wasn't going to stand there and gloat over his victory.
Apolla smiled. "You are worthy to enter the lair. Pass by me, and may the blessings of the great ones who have gone on before be with you." She stepped aside as the once-invisible gate now appeared. "It was an honor to fight you, Marik Ishtar."
Marik stepped through the portal with a final word of goodbye. He didn't know where his path would take him next, but he would be ready to face whatever was thrown at him.
The boy rolled onto his other side, mumbling softly in his sleep. The wound in his shoulder hurt suddenly, but the pains in his heart hurt much worse. He wanted his siblings back. It was all he prayed for. All he hoped for. All he dreamed of.
Then he felt Rishid pull the quilt up around him again. He must have thrown it off without realizing. "Lay still," the man muttered. "You may tear open those wounds worse." The voice was gruff and unlike Rishid's usual soft tones around his younger brother, but his touch was gentle and Marik knew he was only concerned. Unconsciousness soon eased the boy from a dream-filled slumber into complete darkness.
Slowly the dark-haired priestess awoke from her deep sleep, her eyes wide and amazed by what she had just seen. She looked around the spacious room as she adjusted to the night, brushing the long tresses away from her face. At first she felt as if someone else was in the room with her, but then she knew that that could not be. She was alone.
She had been in the palace since she could last remember, assisting the man who claimed to be the personal advisor to the king. Her visions, he said, would help their ruler immensely in deciding where to place his armies for the next attacks of the Red Zealot.
But she wasn't certain she trusted his words. She had been told that the king would be notified of her first two visions of destruction, but she had since learned that he never had been. The woman had started to wonder if the "advisor" was corrupt and using the information for evil purposes. So she had started making up false visions to relate to him—visions that had nothing to do with where the Red Zealot would strike. The man was becoming very frustrated with her and had taken to locking her in her quarters.
"Isis! You are of no use to me!" he had roared only earlier this evening. "Not to me or to the land of Juno! How will we stop the Red Zealot with these pointless visions of yours!" He had barged into her room, his face red with anger because of the report of the last vision the woman had given.
Ishizu had regarded him calmly from her position across the room. "I am sorry, Lord Colchis, that I am not able to help. I do not control what visions come to me." She usually liked to keep a fair distance away from him, but more often than not she wasn't able to succeed in that.
She remembered how Colchis had narrowed his eyes and regarded her suspiciously, his ruddy, yet handsomely chiseled face displaying a very obvious frown between the moustache and goatee he sported. "No, I suppose you can't. But you can control the visions that you tell to me." He had stepped ever closer until he was trapping her against the wall. "Well, Isis? Is that it? Are you hiding things from me?" Colchis had raised a hand to stroke her cheek, his piercing blue eyes boring into her own. He often turned on his charm when he wanted something, but Isis had never given in to him. That sort of thing didn't appeal to or impress her at all.
"I have no reason to, do I? And I would appreciate it if you would now remove yourself from my room, Lord Colchis," she had told him coldly. He knew she didn't like it when he became forward in that way, but he would do it continually in spite of that. "I have told you what I have seen."
"Very well," he had replied, "but know this, Isis—if you are crossing me, I will find out. And you will be executed from withholding valuable information that could have saved many lives." With that he had turned and stalked out of the room, his cape blowing out behind him.
Now Ishizu looked out the window from where the pale moonlight was creeping in. What if that were true? she wondered. Or she had wondered. After finding herself locked in her room that first time, she had no doubt that Colchis was up to something treacherous. He wanted to keep her from wandering through the palace, from finding the king and telling him what was going on. She wanted so badly to tell her visions to someone she knew she could trust. She wanted more than anything to be able to prevent at least one attack from the Red Zealot. The king was trustworthy. She felt it deep inside. The next attack would take place two days from now, in a small village to their north. Ishizu knew that no matter what, she had to get that information to the king.
Her thoughts wandered back to the dream she had just awoken from. She had seen blood . . . pain . . . a young boy struggling to fight for his life. . . . And . . . she knew him. . . . Somehow . . . somewhere . . . deep in the heart she thought was closed to everyone . . . she knew she did. And she knew that she loved him. He was someone dear to her.
Easing herself out of bed, Ishizu went into the bathroom and splashed cold water in her eyes. Every night for a week now, she had dreamt of that teenager and had seen him in her visions. But why couldn't she remember who he was? She sensed he was nearby now. . . . Very nearby. Somewhere in the palace, perhaps? Was he in trouble? . . . Or would he be soon?
Now she straightened up, staring into the mirror at her worn-out, exhausted reflection. Her eyes were bloodshot and sported black circles underneath them. She hadn't had a good night's sleep ever since coming to this treacherous place. There were so many things pressing on her poor mind—the safety of those in the next village that would be attacked, the identity of that dear boy, her own identity. . . .
Abruptly the image in the mirror changed. She saw dark, murky water, rough with an oncoming storm. Someone was drowning in it. The figure struggled for the surface, reaching out a tan-skinned hand in desperation. "SISTER! Save me, sister! I need you!" the terrified voice screamed. She couldn't see the person clearly, but something told her it was the same youth who had been haunting her dreams for a week.
He flailed frantically, suddenly crying out as something pulled him under. Bubbles rose to the top, followed by blood that turned all of the dark water to a deep red. Then the vision was over and the mirror returned to normal.
The priestess leaned across the sink, her heart pounding. What could it have meant! Was that something that was going to happen? Why was the boy in trouble! And why did he call her "sister"! Did she have family? Was that why she sensed that she loved the boy so?
Shakily the tortured woman reached out and touched the mirror where the drowning teen's hand had been a moment before. "Brother," she whispered softly, feeling a tear slip from her eye. "My brother. . . ."