A small stream of sunlight broke through the dark gray clouds and touched upon the castle walls, giving the dull stones a bright glow. It made its way into a window and down the endless marble halls, casting its luminous beams across the age-old statues and paintings Marik had seen the previous night. One of the rays found the window of a bedroom and fell across the sleeping form inside. Slowly the once-lifeless boy began to pulsate with movement, throwing the quilt back and then immediately shivering from the cold.
Gentle lavender eyes fluttered open and tried to put the blurry scenes they was seeing into focus. The youth belonging to the eyes was laying in a large bed on his side, wearing an open bathrobe that displayed the bandages over his chest and the one on his leg. The boy felt weak all over and the pain in his stomach was unmistakable. He couldn't recall the last time he had had a good meal. It had been hard to find anything edible in such a barren kingdom as this.
The events of the previous night came back to him then and he struggled to bolt upright. His brother! He had found his brother Rishid . . . only Rishid hadn't remembered him. A feeling of sadness began to creep over him, but then he also recalled how Rishid had helped him anyway, despite not remembering and not completely trusting him. As he took in the immaculate furniture and decorations, Marik realized that Rishid was even letting him sleep there in the royal bed! But where was the man now? Where had Rishid gone? The thought that he wasn't there made panic rise within the distressed youth's heart.
"Rishid?" he called loudly, finding his voice. "Rishid, where are you!" Had his brother gone off to attend to matters of the kingdom? Marik couldn't see him anywhere. But surely the man wouldn't have simply left him there alone in this strange place . . . would he?
A shadow fell across him then and a tight grip was placed on his uninjured shoulder. "Hush, boy," Rishid growled. "You are still hurt. Lay back." He had been on the other side of the expansive room, but now he quickly returned to Marik's side upon hearing the teen call for him. He could see that Marik wasn't in the most stable of conditions. Not only was his body hurt, but his peace of mind was as well.
Marik looked up at him, grateful that he was there but still saddened by his roughness. "Rishid . . . you still don't remember me at all, do you?" he asked softly, stung by Rishid calling him "boy." He had had an idle fantasy that his brother would recall him on this new day, but he knew now and he really had known before that it was ridiculous. It could take many days, even weeks or months, before Rishid would remember. And maybe . . . maybe he actually never would. The possibility was horrifying to think about, and Marik tried not to, but still he knew that some amnesia victims never did regain what they had lost. Rishid could end up as one of those poor souls, doomed to never remember anything on his own and forced to rely solely upon the memories of others.
Rishid looked down, his eyes still cold. "No," he said truthfully. "Nor do I recall that name. I am Odion here." He still couldn't understand his feelings of protectiveness. For the entire night he had turned over and over in his mind the things Marik had said upon their encounter in the throne room. And again he had reached the conclusion that none of it made sense. If nothing else did, the photographs of him there in the palace seemed so conclusive in proving Marik wrong—and yet, Rishid didn't want to say he was wrong. He found the boy's tale not plausible, but that didn't mean there wasn't some part of him that found it possible—or that wished it was.
"You never liked that name," Marik sighed as he laid back down. "You'll always be Rishid to me." He winced as he fell back against one of the wounds. With a grunt of pain he shifted his position. There were actually not too many ways he could lay without hitting against a wound. Such was the nature of his injuries.
Rishid muttered something unintelligible and half-turned away. He felt uncomfortable discussing a past he didn't remember and that might not even have actually happened. "Are you hungry?" he asked coldly, changing the subject. He was certain the boy would be; he looked half-starved and so weak!
Marik nodded slowly, again trying to sit up. Perhaps, he thought sadly, Rishid will never look at me gently again. The cold look was almost too much for him to bear, and he looked away.
Rishid pressed an intercom button to the kitchen. "You will have to tell me what you want," he said flatly. "I don't remember that, either." He pretended not to see Marik slump down gloomily.
Marik twisted one of his armbands. He could hardly stand this. To Rishid, he was nothing more than a stranger. Even though the man had helped him, Marik sadly knew again that he didn't know that they were brothers. And even if Rishid hadn't admitted that again just now, his attitude toward Marik made it obvious. Rishid's sarcasm on the subject now only made it worse. "Anything without meat," the boy finally said quietly. "I don't like meat."
Rishid ordered something without further comment to Marik. Inwardly something was cursing him for treating the boy with such unfeeling, but he tuned the voice out. Yet still . . . something told him that one day, very soon, he would regret it. He would regret all of it. Every unkind word, every cold stare, every time he had behaved roughly towards him. . . . Rishid tuned all of this out as well.
Now Marik placed his hands on the mattress and forced his weak body to get into a sitting position. He caught sight of his lavender shirt and leather pants, freshly washed and neatly folded on the foot of the bed. Instantly he reached for them, throwing the robe back as he did so.
"I had the palace doctor examine you," Rishid said, walking over and standing in front of him. "He thought you should rest for another day. You're hurt very badly. He was surprised you managed to get here with your leg." He could tell from Marik's expression and actions that what he wanted now was to get dressed and get right back to whatever it was he had been doing before being captured, and Rishid was definitely not in favor of that.
Marik laughed weakly but then sobered. "I can't rest. We have to find Ishizu, our sister. And someone's been manipulating you, Rishid. We have to find out who." He stood up, pulling his pants on over his shorts before sinking back into the mattress tiredly. Rishid was right—he could barely stand. But he was determined to not let that stop him. He couldn't let anything stop him now! There was too much at stake—Rishid's memory, his and Ishizu's lives. . . . "Somehow someone forced you to forget those you knew before and loved. For some reason, I believe they wanted you to become the ruler, my brother." Marik looked up into the cold orbs, pleading for understanding and a willingness to listen. Rishid had to listen to him! He couldn't just ignore this! "And they must have had a dark purpose. I fear for your life, Rishid!" Marik was certain that whoever had done this wasn't simply trying to make life difficult for him and his siblings. If it truly was Fafnir, then it all must have something to do with that talisman he was after. The Ishtars had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. At least, that was what Marik told himself. He didn't want to think there was someone new to worry about who was genuinely out to get them.
The Egyptian man stared back stonily, not replying for a long while. "You fear for my life?" he repeated. He understood what Marik was saying, he just didn't understand why or how it could be true. There was no reason that he would be in danger. He couldn't even come up with a plan to capture the Red Zealot! "If I was brought here very recently, then why does everyone know me!" Rishid snarled. He wasn't about to outwardly show his growing feelings of wishing that Marik was his brother. "Why are there photographs of me in the palace when I was a child, if I have only lived here a few weeks?" His conflicting emotions continued to rage within him—what he thought was the truth and what he wished was. He also wished Marik would stop telling him delusions of anything different than what Rishid was certain the truth was. How could any of what Marik said be true?
Marik remained undaunted. "Bring me some of these photos," he requested softly. "Please." He didn't understand things either. How in Heaven's name could anyone somehow get pictures of Rishid as a child and splice them into pictures of the palace? And how could he explain why everyone knew Rishid here? How was their new enemy operating?
Rishid grunted, crossing the floor and looking on the shelves for the albums he had been given several weeks before. "Most rulers would throw you in prison or even execute you on the spot for speaking that way to them," he said. In spite of saying this, he wasn't really irritated with the boy. And it still awed him how Marik trusted him completely and absolutely without a second thought.
"But you're my brother, Rishid," Marik retorted in a melancholy tone. "And you're not arresting me or having me killed. It's true, you very easily could, but you wouldn't and you won't." He leaned back against the soft pillows, watching him. "I know you won't."
Rishid ignored that. "What are those tattoos in your flesh?" he demanded, pulling out a gold-embossed photo album and laying it open on the shelf. He had been wanting to know the answer ever since he had first seen the angry marks. "Where did they come from and why do you have them?" He couldn't imagine anyone willingly placing all of those images into their back—the expansive wings that spread across Marik's shoulder blades, the hieroglyphics and the strange creatures enclosed within playing card-like rectangles, the large ankh symbol. . . . The hours it must have taken to carve all of that must have seemed endless. It looked very painful.
Marik was preparing to pull his shirt on when he heard Rishid's question. Setting the garment aside, the boy stood up and slowly limped over to where Rishid was standing to display the scars for his brother to see. "I never wanted them," he said quietly. "My father—your adoptive father, if he could be called that. . . . He treated you abominably. You never thought of him as your father, and I really don't either." Marik had briefly wanted to explain why he hadn't called the man "our father" just then. Now he shook his head and resumed the original subject. "That man forced these on me. It was some sort of blasted family tradition. And you, my brother . . . you carved those hieroglyphics into your own flesh to share my pain." A flash of memory came to Marik then—he saw Rishid standing before him, removing the bandages from his face and revealing the self-made scars. Marik had always loved his elder brother so very much, and at that moment he had known that he would always have someone to stand by him. Rishid would always love him and be loyal and comforting. And when he could do nothing else, he was always willing to share the boy's pain.
Rishid gazed once more at the mean tattoos adorning the boy's back. Then his hand went up to touch those he sported himself. "Why would I do that for you? Why would I do it for anyone?" he demanded to know. It was all incomprehensible to him, that there could be such caring in this cruel world. And he couldn't imagine that he would choose to have a permanent scar for anything or anyone, no matter who they were. Why would he? If he had had actually had a choice in the matter, as Marik had indicated, why would he have voluntarily scarred his flesh?
Marik turned around to face him, his eyes sad. Rishid couldn't know it, but his words were piercing this youth's heart so. Marik wasn't one who often cried, but he had done it on this quest the previous night and he felt as though he were about to do so again now. Throughout all the years Rishid had always been there for him. It didn't matter what the boy had done or said; Rishid knew Marik loved him no matter what, and the feeling was returned. Rishid had fought to bring Marik back from the chasm of darkness he had fallen into. And Marik knew that without Rishid's and Ishizu's love, he never would have made it back out. Now Rishid couldn't understand any of it.
The boy spoke at last, his current state of heartbreak obvious as he saw Rishid watching him and waiting for an answer.
"Because . . . that's how close we were, my brother."
The silence that followed was deafening. Were. Marik had been close to Rishid in the past. But they were close no longer. Marik clenched his fists now, determined to give back to Rishid what the man had shown to him before—love. True, beautiful, brotherly love. He would fight to bring his brother completely back to him. And he wouldn't give up until it happened.
Thinking of something else, the youth reached up and touched the marks under Rishid's eyes. "Look, my brother," Marik whispered. "Both of us have these. No one else does. Only us." Rishid hadn't spoken for an eternity and Marik was getting desperate for him to do so. And how would the man explain the scars? There wasn't a way to get around the fact that only Marik and Rishid had them.
Rishid had looked at them. He had been perplexed by the scars the first time he had seen them. But he looked again. The dark marks below their eyes were identical in every sharp, dark line. He didn't understand it. He didn't understand any of it. Slowly he raised a hand, about to run a finger over Marik's scars, but then he accidentally brushed against a loose photograph in the nearby album and it fell between the brothers on the floor.
Rishid glared down at it, dropping his hands to his sides again. What was illusion and what was truth? Why did it have to be so difficult to choose the right way? And why was he not allowed to remember?
Marik looked at the stiff paper as well, feeling his heart drop. The photo depicted a five-year-old Rishid standing in front of the palace. How could Marik explain such a trick? How would he ever get his precious brother to believe him and remember the truth?
Then he noticed something else about the picture, something shocking enough to make him bend down and pick it up, in spite of the horrid pain the action brought on. He stared intently, wondering if he was seeing things. But he wasn't.
"You look as if you've seen something treacherous," Rishid remarked. He observed the teen with narrowed eyes, not wanting him to overexert himself. Frankly, he didn't even know how Marik had managed to stand up at all. Did the boy care about him that much, to completely ignore his own health, or lack thereof, to speak with him? "Have you found your story untrue?" This thought actually quite depressed him, he admitted to himself. In spite of being certain Marik's tales were delusions, he really didn't want them proven as such.
"No, Rishid, I haven't!" Marik retorted. "Look at this! You have the scars in this picture." He pointed to the likeness of the five-year-old Rishid. "But you didn't get them until much, much later, when you were about nineteen!" If Rishid would only trust him, here was another indication that something wasn't right! But would Rishid trust him? Couldn't he trust him on this one thing?
Rishid took the picture from him, staring at it fiercely. "Your whole story seems preposterous," he said then. All that Marik had said could be explained away. Maybe not all of it so easily, but one way or another it all could be. He didn't have a very strong case, it seemed to Rishid. But that didn't mean that part of him—a very small part—wasn't starting to believe the boy.
Marik's shoulders slumped in temporary defeat. "And what everyone at the palace has told you isn't?" Now he felt weary once more, the pain from his wounds screaming loudly for justice to be done and for Marik to lay down. But he refused to listen, as he always had refused in the past. Marik simply couldn't be bothered with his body's need to rest. His spirit was always so wild and free—though he didn't feel very free now—and he had so many things to be concerned with at the moment that the thought of resting was pushed aside.
Rishid narrowed his eyes, refusing to answer. He wanted to believe that Marik was telling the truth and that he wasn't some poor, senile, delusional young boy. He wanted to believe that he had a brother—and a sister—to love and treasure. More than anything, he wanted a real family. Somehow now he felt like somewhat of an outcast in the palace, with this strange youth as his only friend. But something kept him from saying any of that aloud. He was afraid of trusting Marik. In a world where he remembered nothing, how would he know who truly spoke what was? He didn't like what he had been told by those in the palace, but he had accepted it with resignation when they had proffered their proof. Marik, poor boy, didn't have proof of his tale that couldn't be explained away by these pictures.
Unless Rishid were to believe what he had said about the scars. Rishid remembered how he had fruitlessly searched the palace for any information about the tattoos he had, but he had never found a satisfactory answer. But still, he had them in that picture when he had been five. And Marik said he hadn't gotten them until fourteen years later. If Rishid were to trust Marik, he would have to rely on something other than proof. He would have to rely on his heart alone. And he didn't know if he could do that.
"Give me a chance, Rishid," Marik said softly, still struggling to stand. His lavender eyes were sad now, but Rishid still saw a faint glimmer of determination. The boy still wasn't giving up, not even after everything Rishid had said that might ordinarily have discouraged him. And Rishid knew that if the tables were turned—if they were brothers and Marik was the one with amnesia—Rishid would be pleading just as much with him.
. . . If they were brothers. If Marik was telling the truth. Could Rishid afford to take the chance? Could he afford to trust someone again? He did believe now with all his heart that Marik believed Rishid was his brother and wasn't just trying to fool him, but that didn't mean that the youth was correct in his beliefs.
"Don't push me out," Marik pleaded, grabbing at Rishid's hand. Desperation began to overwhelm him at Rishid's new silence. What was his brother going to do? Would he refuse to listen to Marik? Would he literally push Marik out of the palace? The boy was too upset to realize that his own feelings were now being fed by his body's weakness. He would become very ill if he didn't lay down again very soon. But still he persisted. "My brother, even if you do not believe me, you could at least be willing to try trusting me for a short while! I understand your confusion, believe me, I do! But . . . it's still hard. I've been looking for you so long, and now that I've found you, I feel like the true you is still hidden from me." He smiled softly, trying to keep hold of what he knew he could be grateful for at this moment. "And yet I know that your courageous, kind spirit still exists. You took me in and cared for me. I know you were the one bandaging my wounds. You didn't assign me to one of your many servants, Rishid—you were trying to nurse me back to health yourself." And in this cold, cruel kingdom, that act meant everything to Marik.
"You won't have any health if you don't lay down," Rishid, able to see more about Marik's current condition than Marik himself, retorted. "And if you insist on standing, I will simply have to carry you back to bed myself!" He didn't know where those words had come from exactly. He only knew his frustration that the boy was going to seriously hurt himself—and that no matter what, he couldn't let that happen.
Marik blinked at Rishid in shock. Then, without knowing exactly why at first, he began to laugh. His weak frame shook with mirth and he found he couldn't stop himself. Maybe I've finally snapped, he thought. Maybe he was laughing out of hysteria. Or maybe everything that had happened was taking its toll on him again.
Rishid certainly seemed to think Marik had snapped. He gazed at the boy in disbelief, unable to find any humor in the situation at all. "What has gone wrong with you?" he growled. "I see nothing amusing about any of this!"
Marik, finally uncovering why he was laughing, slowly managed to calm himself down. "I'm sorry," he apologized, taking several deep breaths. "What you said just now struck me as amusing. It sounded like something I would say, and it's just hard to imagine you being like me, Rishid." In Marik's mind, he and Rishid couldn't be more different. Marik was short-tempered, loud, and impulsive, while Rishid was calm, quiet, and thoughtful. But they had much in common as well. They were both kind, loving people who would do anything for those they cared for. They were both brave and courageous, and both very stubborn and unwilling to admit when they had pushed themselves too far.
Rishid gave the boy a stern look. "I agree," he muttered, finding the thought of being like Marik utterly preposterous. At this point, he most definitely did not see any similarities either.
He also found that Marik was becoming weaker. He could see it in the boy's increasingly slumped stance. "You're going to collapse!" the man scolded. He didn't want Marik to become more sick than he was. That would not help anything.
Marik was about to protest when his leg suddenly gave out, very nearly sending him to the floor.
Instantly Rishid's strong arms were around him, helping him to stay upright. "That's it! Go to bed, you foolish boy!" the Egyptian man yelled in anger. Without thinking he gave Marik a harsh shake, not realizing how badly this would hurt the boy.
Marik's eyes widened and he gripped at Rishid's wrists, dizziness coming over him as his brother completely unnerved him, body and soul. He was no match for his brother's almost inhuman strength. Before long he was being lifted into the air and carried to the bed. What was Rishid going to do? Would he drop him down roughly onto the mattress! Marik actually felt a twinge of apprehensiveness and fear, though he fought against it. His brother wasn't trying to hurt him, he tried to reassure himself. Rishid was only worried and he would set Marik down gently. To Marik's relief, that truly was what was done. Rishid kept, however, almost a deathgrip on Marik's wrist for several agonizing ages before letting him go.
The boy looked up at him, stunned. Again Rishid had hurt him. Perhaps he hadn't meant to, but still he had. Marik's vision was still swimming from the rough jolt that had been delivered to him and his wrist was aching. Rishid had never treated him this way! Slowly the youth sank into the fluffy pillow, struggling not to lose consciousness. He did seem to still be hurt quite badly, he realized. He would have collapsed, had Rishid not caught him in time. Marik opened his mouth to speak, but Rishid turned away from him and headed for the door without saying another word. This was the last thing Marik saw clearly before he started to drop into an almost delirious state.
As the man brushed past him, Marik reached out and snatched part of his robe once more. He didn't know where Rishid was going. What if he was leaving? What if he wasn't planning to come back? Unquenchable panic rose up within him—blinding him, choking him, wrapping itself around his heart and not letting go. Nothing that had just happened was clear to him any more. He couldn't understand where Rishid was going. He didn't know why his brother was leaving him. Was the man angry at him? "Rishid," Marik tried to scream, but it only came out as a tortured whisper.
Instantly Rishid whirled on him, his eyes narrowed and full of apparent rage. "Don't try to speak!" he roared. "You're injured! If you are my brother, I don't want to lose you! Don't you understand! You're too ill for this!" Every pent-up emotion he had held inside since his arrival here was now breaking loose and manifesting itself. The normally even-tempered Rishid couldn't keep these feelings bottled up any longer. Realizing that Marik was endangering himself had been the final straw.
Marik drew back, astonishment and hurt in his own eyes. He had never felt so vulnerable in his life! Rishid had always treated him gently before. But now he had changed. Marik felt it. He could see it. Rishid had changed so very much! And it was frightening him. This feeling that was starting to come over him—a feeling of fear and near-terror when he looked up at Rishid—was something he was trying so hard to push back. He didn't want such a feeling. Never did he want to be afraid of his brother!
"But he hurt you," the phantoms of his delirium chanted again and again. "Your brother hurt you!"
Marik closed his eyes tightly as he fought to ignore them all. Rishid hadn't meant to! he retorted again and again. But the feeling persisted and Marik was forced to acknowledge its presence. He was apprehensive of Rishid. He didn't know what sorts of things the man would do now that he had become so extremely angry and didn't remember the truth.
But still . . . Rishid had said that he didn't want to lose Marik. That was why he had been so upset. He was afraid Marik had overexerted himself and that his brother would become sicker. Marik clung to this realization as the delirium began to eclipse his senses. It was hard to keep it in focus, but deep down he knew it was the complete and absolute truth.
Now Rishid stared into the endearing face, his anger slowly beginning to melt away into the air. Marik looked so crushed! So childlike and crushed! And something was wrong with his eyes. Rishid could see the slightly glassy look that had formed. An alarmed feeling instantly came over him. Had he caused that! By his thoughtless actions, had he actually hurt Marik worse? He remembered how he had shaken the boy so harshly and was ashamed.
"You're right, Rishid," Marik whispered now, turning away. "I'm too ill. I'm too ill to have a stranger who looks like my brother do this to me." The words had left his mouth before he was able to retrieve them. Marik truly was too ill for this anxiety, and that was finally starting to dawn on him. Never would he have said that if he had been in complete control of his senses. He sat with one leg up to his chest and the other stretched on the bed as he stared down blankly at the comforter quilt. His vision swam in and out of focus as he clutched the cloth with a shaking, tan-skinned hand. He had to rest . . . he knew he had to rest. . . .
Now Rishid drew back, stunned back into reality by Marik's words. He had made the rift between them worse. And Marik would never heal this way. Guilt washed over the man that he couldn't have kept his temper in check. The only reason Marik had been standing for such an extended period of time was because he had been trying to get Rishid to believe him. Because he was so desperate to get his brother back. He hadn't been trying to do some horrible thing—just the opposite, actually—and yet Rishid had most likely made him feel like the scum of the earth. Somehow this had to be remedied!
Slowly Rishid reached out for the anguished boy, touching his bare shoulder gently. Marik flinched under his touch, looking obviously distraught and uncertain about what was going to happen now. In his increasing delirium, he couldn't decide whether Rishid was about to hurt him again or not. His spirit continued to fight the feelings with every bit of strength he had left in him, but it was still difficult to triumph over the delusions being created from his illness.
"Marik." Rishid spoke barely above a whisper now, saying the name of the boy he had caused so much pain for. No, he still didn't remember his brother, but he couldn't bear making him so sad, especially when his true motives had been of concern and worry. "Marik, please . . . forgive me," Rishid rasped, feeling his cold exterior melt away. His remorse now was deep and sincere. How could he have gotten so angry! He hadn't meant for it to happen. Not at all! "I was truly concerned about your health, but that was no excuse for my behavior." He paused, having one final internal struggle before at last determining that the best way to get Marik to rest would be to reveal his innermost feelings. And somewhere within him, he found that he loved Marik enough to be willing to be so emotionally vulnerable to him, though only a few moments before he hadn't wanted to speak a word of his true thoughts at all. "The truth is . . . I do wish to trust you. I wish it with all my heart. If you would please promise to rest, I will promise to try to trust you." Rishid looked at Marik pleadingly, feeling as though everything important in his life rode upon the boy's answer. "Can you forgive me, Marik?" He meant every word of what he said. He meant it whole-heartedly. And Marik knew it.
The youth stared up at him, his eyes wide once more. Then he dove into the man's arms, his body racked with sobs. Of course he forgave his brother. He loved his brother. He loved Rishid with all his heart. And his delirium couldn't change that. His body may be delirious, but his spirit wasn't. Rishid's words reached Marik's spirit, touching every part of the boy's broken heart. And once again, slowly but surely, the wounds began to heal.
The tall, delicate figure pulled the cloak closer around her as she leaned out the window and judged the distance to the ground. Unfortunately, there was no way she could climb down that far, not even if she tied all the clothes in the room together. That was too risky anyway. What were the chances of her getting down without some of them becoming untied under her weight? Not great.
The woman turned back and studied the large room that served as her prison. There had to be another way out. She had scoured every wall, the floor, and even the ceiling for trapdoors or concealed passageways, but she had never found anything in the past. That didn't mean she was giving up, however. Carefully she ran her hand over the paneling decorating the mantle of the fake fireplace, hoping to hear some sort of click or pop—but her efforts were not rewarded.
With a sad sigh she sank into the soft mattress of the bed, her cerulean blue eyes scrutinizing every visible square inch of the room. Every waking thought was now haunted by the memory of the vision she had seen in her mirror. The boy screaming for her to help him . . . reaching out desperately for her hand . . . being pulled under the water. . . . His blood staining the clear liquid red. . . . Whoever he was, her brother or not, she knew she couldn't let such a treacherous fate befall him!
His eyes . . . his dear, panicked lavender eyes always flashed before her. The way he looked up at her, pleading so earnestly for her help, made her want to run to him, to gather him in her arms and tell him how precious he was to her. Again she knew she had loved him once. If she could see him again in real life and not in a vision, perhaps she would remember their past.
She stood once more, beginning to pace about the room with concern and agitation. Unsure of exactly how she would escape the room and begin her search for both the boy and for the king, Ishizu grew more desperate.
A flash of vision came to her then and she grabbed for the bejeweled handle of the dresser drawer, pulling it out slowly and then kneeling down to feel behind it. This chest, in spite of its magnificence, had no true backing to it, and Ishizu found herself feeling the wall. It moved slightly when her fingers touched it and she felt a twinge of exhilaration. There was a secret panel here!
With great care she pushed the dresser along the richly carpeted floor until the entire loose slab of wall was revealed. Now touching it again, Ishizu watched as it began to move outward, triggered by a hidden spring somewhere in its workings. Beyond it there was a great darkness, a great chasm of the unknown, but she was more than willing to brave it. The strange necklace she wore glowed brightly, allowing her to see down the twisting path that lay ahead. With a nod of satisfaction she entered gingerly and braced herself for whatever was to come next.
Behind her she heard the doorknob rattling and Lord Colchis yelling for her loudly. She smiled to herself as the panel closed shut silently. It would take Colchis a while to be able to get into her room, since she had moved the dresser in front of the door. And she would be long gone by the time he found another way inside.
Now she just had to find the ruler and that boy. They were both in the palace somewhere. She was certain of it. She sensed them both. Once she found them, perhaps everything would become clear. She prayed it would. And she prayed that no more innocents would have to die at the hands of the Red Zealot.