CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The truth of what we call our knowing is both light and dark. Men are always dying and waking. The rhythm between we call life. In the night I turn and face myself, the many howling, laughing, pausing in the body of one. Some miracle is about to happen. Some new man unseen wishes to rise and speak. I walk in the dark feeling darkness on my skin. Dawn always begins in the bones. The light stirs me to rise and walk. Lightly I step around the sleeping forms, the bodies of the other selves still dreaming. Nothing has been disturbed except my inner quiet. I am restless, an animal sniffing the wind. The shape of truth is coming.
Death matters, as does life. As it ends it begins again. Knowing that is both my comfort and my fear. Perfection is a long road; I shall never see its end—the ribbon of life winds back on itself. At dawn the threads of time unfurl, sunlight streams across the sands. Time reaches in both directions, knotted in the golden orb of the moment. This moment is eternity.
Stars fade like memory. Bless the boat of the morning that carries us into light. Bless the oars that stir the water causing ripples of consciousness. Bless the northern and southern edges of the sky. Bless the eastern and western banks of the river. Bless the oarsmen in the boat, god's people, his creation. Bless the face of god above and the reflection of god above on earth below. Bless the veil of clouds that guard his secrets. Bless life stirring below the surface of the skin, the discomfort of human weakness and mortality, loss and suffering, the misunderstandings that prick consciousness and prod men toward truth. Bless the goddesses, the wives, the daughters, the mothers, the priestesses. Bless the house of Osiris. Bless this body where the world is gathered. Bless the light in his forehead, in his heart and hands. Bless the sun that shines on every limb.
A creature of light am I.
Now the treasures of the world lie before me—the jeweled wings of love and the gold bracelets of days. The crown of existence rests on my head, crystal stars in a lapis sky. Tempted neither by terror nor wonder, I take earth's simple offerings: a handful of seeds, the air in my nose and the rays of light on my belly. In time I'll fly in and out of time. In time I'll come to the house of magic. I shall pass into the unity of fire and know dreams and colors and secrets. For now it is enough to roam the air that separates earth from sky. I do not hurry my destiny. I neither long for history nor forget it
I have come home. I have entered humanhood, bound to rocks and plants, men and women, rivers and sky. I sail a long river and row back again. It is joy to breathe under the stars. I am the sojourner destined to walk a thousand years until I arrive at myself...
--Excerpts from "Hymn to Ra", "Becoming the Hawk Divine" and "Hymn to Osiris", Egyptian Book of the Dead, as translated by Normandi Ellis
"It is time."
Once again, he heard the voice with his mind, not his ears. Ears were useless here, where there was nothing corporeal, nothing of flesh and blood and bone. The voice that entered his mind was pure energy, pure light, and Imhotep marveled at its singular, horrifying beauty.
"You have fulfilled your duty; your wish will be granted." The voice continued speaking to his mind, but an almost sly tone crept into it. "I have come to give you what you so desired—death, and entrance into the Golden Lands. Are you ready for your journey?"
"No!" Imhotep's mind screamed the answer. "No! When last we met, I spoke hastily, foolishly." He spun around, searching within the shifting column for a point on which to focus; there was none. Finally, dizzied by the incandescent display, he closed his eyes and simply stood there, a single, lone point at the center of the storm. "I beg you—please. Give me the choice you promised me then."
"You did not wish for a choice—your mind was settled, your heart steadfast in its resolve." The voice was condescending, cruelly indifferent. "Are you so mutable, your affections so capricious? This says little for humanity, if the space of days can bend and so thoroughly transform a resolve as hardened as yours. Come now—you have lived, and as you said before, this is not your time. Close your mind to the rest—think of the peace, the joy, the release from suffering. You have suffered, suffered greatly, and even though the suffering was inflicted in part due to your own arrogance and headstrong willfulness, your debt has been paid. You are released." A small pause, and the voice continued, the slyness now back fourfold. "Or will you argue your case again, based upon new evidence? You wish to revoke your earlier claims?"
So the god wanted him to grovel. Very well, he would grovel. He had spoken hastily, out of bitterness and betrayal and grief—some humility was due. And if it bought him a reprieve, a lifetime with Eliana, it was pride well spent. "I have already admitted that I spoke foolishly, hastily. I will add that my words sprang from hurt, from grief, from wounded pride, from the sting of perceived betrayal." He paused, gathering his thoughts, finding the words, organizing them and forming their shape and substance in his mind. "My reaction was that of a man who believed he had nothing to live for—no purpose, no higher calling, no one with whom to share a lifetime. Without companionship, without love, where is the beauty in life? I thought that everything had been taken from me, that there was nothing left to give life beauty, purpose, substance and meaning. I believed that everything I had lived for, died for—endured for—had been taken from me and was lost forever. My only thought was to escape from this life and grasp whatever peace could be found in the afterlife."
He stopped, waited for some reaction from the deity, but when empty silence filled his mind, he continued. "I was…mistaken. No, more than that, I was completely, utterly wrong, and stubbornly arrogant in my tenacious clinging to those false beliefs. The world had changed, circumstances had changed, and I refused to change with them."
The deity gave him the time to once again ponder his words. This time, he chose a different tack. "You say that it is a sign of weakness that the minds of humans are malleable, easily transformed, prone to change. I disagree. Humans have a great capacity to learn, to adapt, to change, to transform—those are the very qualities that have led to mankind's greatest triumphs and achievements. As with anything, there is a dark side—pride, anger, hatred, vengeance—but it is the journey from the dark to the light that transforms the man, allows him to grow and change and become a stronger, better person. My road has been a long and painful one to travel, but I have learned, and I have grown, and I have come to appreciate the singular beauty of life."
He had made his case; all that was left was the request. "If you will still allow me to choose, I will choose to remain here, for whatever span of time I may have left as a mortal man. I will live, and love, and find a place for myself here. And never will a day pass when I do not pause to give thanks for the great gift that has been granted me."
Silence filled the light-filled void. Several lifetimes seemed to pass before the voice spoke again. "Well said, human. Well said. We will consider the matter." Another pause. "But you have not yet addressed the fate of the other. A curse rests upon her soul as well, and a debt remains to be paid. What of her fate?"
Imhotep swallowed, and felt himself grow cold. Eliana still bore the curse? "I thought…I assumed…"
Anger laced through the substanceless voice. "Do not presume to fathom the will of the gods, mortal."
"Then nothing has changed." Imhotep's statement was flat, expressionless.
"The curse on your soul has been lifted, mortal. You are free."
"My soul and hers are cut from the same cloth—if one is stained, that flaw marks the other as well." A heavy resignation made the weightless words leaden. "If she still bears the weight of the curse, I bear it as well."
"You would tie your fate to hers, then? Suffer with her through the punishment for her sins?" Could a god's voice hold that much disbelief? "You would give up everything your suffering has bought you, spurn the gift of the gods—freedom from the weight of a mortal life, the heavenly promise of the afterlife? You would refuse these and once again subject yourself to a curse placed by mere men? A curse that is not even your own? All this you would do for her?"
"For her, and for our love. Yes."
Silence descended again, as the light pulsed and throbbed around him. He had begun to think of it as an entity itself, as alive and real as any mortal who had ever walked the earth. It hummed and vibrated, filled with an energy that held the power of life and death.
"We have made our decision, mortal." The voice was quieter now, filled with a sense of watchfulness, almost curiosity. "We will grant you your choice. You will be allowed this lifetime, as will the female."
Imhotep felt his hopes begin to grow, until the deity's next words trampled them yet again. "But heed our words, mortal. Her debt remains, and will be paid in this lifetime; her choice has not yet been made."
"Her choice? She has made her choice; she has chosen me as well. What choice?"
"Silence, mortal, no more questions. You have made your choice." The voice held a hint of warning. "Live your life, walk your path, as she will walk hers."
"Our paths are the same path," Imhotep protested, forgetting that he spoke to a god. "Our souls are joined—that choice has been made. What more atonement must be offered? Tell me—I will pay her debt."
The voice changed, a note of deadly warning creeping into its rich vibrancy. "We tell you once again—it is not your place to question our will." Then, softening the rebuke, it added, "As much as love joins two souls, they are still two souls, mortal. Damage has been done; it must be repaired. The debt must be repaid. She must choose her fate, as you chose yours; you cannot speak for her. Nor can you pay her debts." The voice dropped lower, became softer still. "Knowing this, do you still choose this path? You would embrace life, with all its uncertainty, all its pain, all its loss? You would choose this, and her, over the certainty of the freedom that has been offered you?"
Knowing full well the finality of the words he spoke, Imhotep still did not hesitate to speak them. "I will not leave her. I cannot. Regardless of what the future holds, she holds my heart."
"Very well, then, mortal. You have made your choice." As the god's words filled his mind, the light lanced out again, once more piercing Imhotep's body, but this time, there was no pain, only a gentle heat as the tendrils of energy crawled through him, permeating each fiber of muscle, each drop of blood, each strand of tissue, every corner of every cell of every organ. The only sensation was one of warmth and healing and mending, as the light poured through him, scrubbing out any trace of what remained of any remnants of the Hom Dai. It crept through his mind, erasing the tendrils of nightmare that marked his soul, leaving behind only emotionless memories, memories that no longer carried the power they had once possessed. The memories he would carry with him; the pain of those memories was gone.
As the light began to withdraw from him, leaving him gasping and shaking, Imhotep thought he heard the deity speak again, but he could not be sure. For a brief moment, he pondered the words he thought he'd heard form in his mind: "Be well, mortal, and live your life. All will be well." Why ever would an indifferent deity offer something like reassurance to someone who was once again, and who forevermore would be, a mere mortal?
With a sound eerily resembling an indulgent chuckle, the light began to draw in on itself and fade away.
In seconds, the light was gone, the wind had disappeared, and dead silence filled the hall. Not even a breath stirred the air. As one, the assemblage watched as the man who had stood in the center of the flaming conflagration and somehow survived it dropped his head to his chest and lowered his arms. For a moment, he simply stood there, seemingly lost in some sort of silent prayer.
When he finally raised his head, his eyes immediately went to Eliana. An eternity of secrets and longings and hopes and dreams passed between them as their gazes locked and the rest of the room faded away. The merest nod of his head told her that he had chosen, and what his choice had been. Then, as a secret smile sealed their compact, Imhotep's gaze frosted over and he turned to the man still holding Eliana. The warmth drained from Imhotep's handsome features as quickly as the color faded from Bashir's swarthy complexion.
Still not moving, Imhotep stared at Bashir, a cold, murderous darkness building in his eyes as he saw the man's arm tighten around Eliana's neck. Bashir saw the devil-light playing in the Egyptian's eyes, and took an involuntary step backwards. As if on cue, Imhotep began to walk towards him, pacing himself, his stride purposeful but not hurried, alert but not tense. He saw sweat bead on the man's forehead as he continued walking, and a smile began to form, a smile that did nothing to melt the icy hatred in his eyes. It was a picture from long ago—the arrogant, unafraid priest advancing on an unwitting, outmatched enemy, an enemy who had unknowingly stumbled into the lair of something that was more powerful than anyone could have imagined. The only difference now was that the priest was mortal. Fully mortal. Whereas before, his power had come from the damnation of unending death, he now drew power from the blessing of the gift of a single lifetime. He was alive, he and Eliana had been given their lifetime together, and by all the gods, this fool would not rob them of it.
Connelly watched the priest walking towards them, and for a second, his eyesight blurred, faded to black, then faded back again, except that image was not right—it had changed somehow, and the man advancing on him was dressed strangely, decked out in the sparse attire of an ancient Egyptian, although his features were unchanged. It was Imhotep, yet it wasn't, and it made Matt's head pound and ache and his stomach clench with an overpowering wave of nausea. And for some reason, it filled him with dread—dread and anger both, which was strange, since Imhotep had never done anything to him to earn his anger. Had he? Fisting a hand against his pounding temple, Connelly closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it. When he opened them again, the vision had faded, and once again, the only thing he saw was a tall Egyptian man garbed in the rough clothing of a laborer. The only thing that remained of the…mummy? Okay, Connelly, where the hell did that come from?…was the murderous gleam in his eye as he advanced on the man still holding Eliana.
Eliana had stood passively for long enough. For the first few minutes, fear had kept her silent; after that, the realization that Bashir liked to hear himself talk, and was calmed and distracted by the sound of his own voice had convinced her that not speaking was the best course of action.
Then, when he had clubbed her father over the head with the gun, knocking him out and sending him sprawling on the floor, only to grab her in a chokehold, the time hadn't seemed quite right for action, either, even with Connelly there as well.
But with Imhotep walking towards her, calmly advancing into the range of not one, but two pistols, Eliana knew that the time had come. Imhotep had survived his choice—had made his choice, to remain with her—and no demented sociopath was going have the opportunity to take him away from her. Not in this lifetime.
Imhotep's advance had startled Bashir enough that the man had loosened his grip on her slightly. That little bit of leverage was all she needed. Calling upon a long ago self-defense course she'd taken, a couple of years in martial arts classes as a teen, and a reservoir of stamina and intrinsic knowledge from…somewhere else, Eliana grabbed for Bashir's gun hand, twisting it down and around with both of hers, while at the same time placing a vicious backward kick and driving her booted foot into his kneecap.
A startled grunt, a cry of pain, and she was free, turning to face her adversary square-on. Another kick, this one to the groin, made him drop the gun, clutching at his crotch and bending nearly double. Taking advantage of his position, she brought her knee up and into his face, where the sickening crunch of cartilage heralded yet another broken nose among the Sudanese.
Still, Bashir was made of stronger stuff than his comrade, and as he crumbled to the ground, clutching his face with one hand, the other hand snaked out towards the dropped weapon. "Bitch," he growled, though the word was garbled and distorted by the blood and chips of broken teeth in his mouth.
Imhotep reached the gun before Bashir, and with a swift kick sent it skimming across the floor where it glided to a spinning stop in the middle of an empty space towards the rear of the room. Reaching down, the priest picked Bashir up by the collar of his shirt, lifting him effortlessly upwards until the Sudanese man's face was level with his. Furious hazel eyes stared into crazed obsidian ones until with a disgusted sound, Imhotep tossed him aside like so much trash.
He forgot about Bashir before the insane man landed, rolling into a crumbled heap on the floor.
A quick glance towards Eliana saw her kneeling beside her father, cradling his head in her lap. A look in the opposite direction revealed Connelly, relieving the now-unconscious Sudanese of his weapon. He had taken advantage of the distraction provided by Eliana's attack on Bashir to launch his own assault on the man holding him.
Of the other Sudanese, the one previously maimed by Connelly, there was no sign.
Connelly saw Imhotep's puzzled glance towards where the man had been, and offered, by way of explanation, "I don't know. He must have crawled off earlier. I didn't see him go." He bent to pick up a discarded weapon. "But here's his gun. At least he's not armed."
Imhotep nodded at Connelly, but with the removal of the Sudanese threat, all his attention was now focused on Eliana. He crossed to her side, and kneeling beside her, looked down at her father.
"He is alive?" Imhotep's first instinct was to gather Eliana into his arms and carry her off somewhere safe, somewhere he could be assured nothing further would threaten her, but Bernstein was her father, and he realized she would never leave him in the care of Connelly, or even Ardeth. She would insist on caring for him herself. And he couldn't fault her for that—indeed, her devotion to family made him admire her even more.
"We have to get him out of here, Imhotep," Eliana fretted. "There's a bomb…"
"I know, my love," Imhotep said, laying a calming hand on her shoulder. "There is a bomb in the pyramid. Someone is working now to dismantle it. We will get your father out of here first." He looked up at Connelly, and darkness filled his eyes once more. "Then we will find the others responsible for this."
"The others? What others?" A voice from the opposite side of the hall drew their attention, and as one, they looked over to see Rais Azziz standing at the far end of the great hall, Bashir's discarded gun in his hand, and a look of abject horror on his face. "Who is responsible for this?"
Imhotep stood and waited as Eliana carefully laid her father's head back down, cushioning it with a pillow made from her discarded sweater. Holding out his hand, he helped her stand as well, and they both watched as Connelly began walking towards Azziz, tucking one of the pistols into his belt, and holding the other casually in his hand.
"A bunch of damn fool religious kooks is who's responsible for this, Azziz." He neared the man, and held out his hand for the gun. "Here, give it to me. You don't look like you like it very much."
Azziz looked up with wild eyes, and backed up a step, taking the gun with him. "Religious kooks, Mr. Connelly? What are you talking about?"
"Religious kooks, Azziz. Fanatics." Connelly slowed, moving more cautiously now, watching the other man carefully. A niggle of worry tickled at him, but he ignored it. He'd talked to Azziz fairly often—the man was a typical government bureaucrat, but a good guy all the same. He'd always seemed to Connelly to be the most calm and pleasant of all the Sudanese representatives at the site. Seeing all this must have really rattled him, shaken him out of his usual political charm. Connelly continued. "Fundamentalist weirdoes who think that their way is the only way, even if it involves mass murder and terrorism. Those kind of kooks."
"That is unfortunate, Mr. Connelly," said Azziz, holding the gun in both hands, now, looking at is as though it were a snake about to bite him. "You don't know how unfortunate."
"Well, Azziz, I've got a pretty good idea." Connelly completely halted his advance, now. His instincts were screaming at him that something was very, very wrong. "How's about you give me the gun, and we'll get out of here." He voice deliberately calm, he held out his hand once more.
Azziz looked up at him, the confused look still in his eyes. Connelly had seen eyes like that before—eyes with the glaze of madness in them—and for a moment, he simply froze, watching as the Sudanese shifted the weapon, so that it was no longer held with fearful uncertainty, but now with a shrewd familiarity. Connelly tore his eyes from the gun, and looked back into Azziz's face. The carefully crafted look of confusion was gone now, replaced by one of skillful cunning, as he cocked the weapon and pointed it at Eliana and Imhotep.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Connelly," the diplomat said, a politician's smile sliding smoothly over his dark, pleasant features. He walked several steps closer to Eliana and Imhotep, but his eyes never left Connelly. "I simply cannot do that."
His smile grew even more charming, more gracious, and, with a self-deprecating laugh, he explained. "You see, my friend, I am one of those 'religious kooks'." He frowned slightly, tipped his head to one side as though pondering the semantics. "Although I believe we would prefer to be called 'god's chosen faithful'."
"Oh, I'm sure you would," agreed Connelly, fingering the grip of his own gun. Where the hell was Ardeth Bay?
After Eliana's surprise move against Bashir, Ardeth had started to leave his spot in the gallery, thinking the situation resolved. He had seen the injured Sudanese man leave, and would have gone to track him down the passage he'd disappeared through right after Imhotep's imprisonment in the light. The man had been gone for a while, but in the Ahm Shere encampment, there were few places to hide, and Ardeth thought his chances of finding the man were fairly high.
Something, though, had made him pause, and now, with this new revelation, he thanked Allah that he had listened to his instincts. Lowering himself into a crouching position, he lined up the rifle's sights again, only to find that Eliana was directly in the path of any trajectory. He couldn't shoot Azziz without endangering her. If he moved to the right or to the left, his shot would be blocked by one of the hall's huge pillars. So, hoping for a chance, however small, Ardeth aimed the rifle and waited.
The verbal jousting in the hall continued.
"Now, Mr. Connelly," Azziz offered pleasantly, ever the smooth negotiator. "Which would you prefer? Would you like to drop your weapons, or shall I shoot your friends, here?"
Connelly dropped the gun in his hand.
"Oh, the other one, too, please," requested Azziz. "My brother is missing his weapons terribly, you see." Calling over his shoulder, he spoke a few words in rapid Arabic. From behind a pillar, far back in the darkness, a man scuttled forward, moving with rodent-like quickness out into the light of the hall. He darted over to where Connelly had dropped the second weapon and picked it up, pausing to spew a wad of bloody spittle out onto Connelly's booted foot.
"Hey, pal," asked Connelly, recognizing the man immediately as the first Sudanese to have attacked him. The injured terrorist had obviously taken advantage of the earlier confusion to sneak out and bring back reinforcements. Contempt for the weasely little malefactor sounded plain in the cold friendliness of Connelly's voice. "How's the nose?"
Outside the pyramid, in the communal open air dining area, Akil Hamid sat with Charles and Robert Price, sipping a cup of lukewarm tea. Idle gossip finished for now, the three men sat in companionable silence, until the far-off sound of a helicopter's rotors caught their attention.
"Who can that be?" Hamid pondered aloud. "The site is off-limits for now, and Doctor Robillard didn't mention having sent for additional medical supplies…"
"Can't even begin to guess, old man," Charles offered unhelpfully, speaking around a mouthful of apple. "I haven't a clue." He seemed content to not have a clue, as well, leaning back in his chair and contentedly closing his eyes as he munched the fruit.
Price, a more adventurous man, leaped at any opportunity to rid himself of his present company. Standing, he stretched and peered out over the forest canopy, towards the approaching sound. "Think I'll go have a look, see who it is. I could use a walk."
Hamid looked up worriedly. "Is that a good idea, Mr. Price? The natives, and all…"
Price grinned and patted the gun concealed within his jacket. Since his initial shock at first meeting the bizarre-looking jungle inhabitants, he'd grown accustomed to the thought of the ugly little things, and indeed, a nice hunting trip might be just the thing to perk up his day.
"I'll be fine, Hamid," he answered the other man, and with a jaunty swagger, walked off into the jungle.
"Well, well," intoned Azziz, looking back and forth between Connelly, who stood slightly to his left, and Bernstein, who lay on the floor off to his right, and Eliana and Imhotep, who were right in front of him. "Decisions, decisions. Where to begin?"
He made a show of scratching his head, thinking hard. The gun swung towards Connelly. "Do we start with the young American agent?" Amused with his own wit, Azziz waved the weapon in Bernstein's direction. "Or perhaps with the aging, but intrepid explorer?"
His cold eyes moved to where Imhotep stood, one arm wrapped protectively around Eliana, shielding her as best he could. "Or do we begin with the mysterious miracle man—the walking medical wonder?" A courtly bow took in Eliana, as well. "Followed shortly by his lady love, of course."
"Shoot the bitch first, brother," whined Bashir, sitting on the floor, looking like a kicked dog. "Kill her, then the Egyptian."
"Shut up, Bashir," Azziz ordered pleasantly. "You are an idiot. I am not surprised you were bested by a woman." Bashir sank back down to the floor.
They had been speaking almost exclusively in English, so Imhotep was unaware of most of what had been said, but he was quite clear on who the enemy had turned out to be, and where the danger currently resided. Stepping further in front of Eliana, he glared at the man. In a language that no one in the room could understand, the priest told the high-ranking government official, in as pleasant a tone as the man had used with Bashir, just which portion of Azziz' own anatomy the terrorist should become quite a bit more intimate with.
Knowing he'd just been insulted, but clueless as to what, exactly, that insult had entailed, Azziz let the gun's barrel stay trained on Imhotep. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of starting with the Egyptian. There was something about him, something vaguely…familiar…that troubled him greatly, but the more he thought about it, the more it made his head ache and throb, and the more the rest of his body hurt, as well, a stinging burn that felt like blades of fire pierced him. But the pain was strongest and most centered in his mind, a slow-burning psychic rage, an envious phantom jealousy that began to uncoil from somewhere deep within.
Almost absently, he lifted his hand to stroke his chin, a gesture that would have looked completely normal on a bearded man, but on clean-shaven Azziz, seemed somewhat odd.
Azziz stared, trying to get a better grip on what he was feeling, but the strange sense of familiarity began to pass, and an almost confused look crossed his face as he looked helplessly between Imhotep and Eliana. In another moment, the lingering confusion, the nagging headache, and the strange sense of connectedness were all gone, and only angry fanaticism colored his dark features once more.
The antagonism towards these two, though, remained.
He aimed, and a smile grew on his face, an evil light danced in his eyes.
"Move. Move. Move!" Ardeth silently urged Eliana, all the while keeping his sights trained on the middle of Azziz's forehead. Eliana was squarely in the middle of his shot—there was no way to take out the Sudanese man without shooting straight through her. All Ardeth could do was sit silently, hoping she would get his telepathic message and get out of the way. So far, he hadn't proven to be much of a psychic.
He discarded the attempt at telepathy and began to pray.
"You have become quite the liability, my friend," Azziz continued, now speaking in Hebrew, to ensure Imhotep's complete understanding. His aim never wavered. The barrel of the gun was still pointed straight at the priest's chest. "What a truly remarkable thing—to have won the genetic lottery, so to speak, and be immune to this disease. How unfortunate, though, that because of that, you will be the first to die."
Imhotep's level gaze didn't falter as he stared at the Sudanese man, and his tone was one of polite curiosity, rather than angry fear. "What can be so priceless, Azziz, that it would cause you to wash your hands in so much blood?"
"Vengeance, Egyptian, and truth, and honor, and the glory of god!" His eyes shown with an unholy light, one that hinted of the true depths of his depraved madness. "We are the chosen ones of god. It is our right—our duty—to wipe the world clean of the infidels and their filth."
Imhotep's tone was mild, calm, as he gently nudged Eliana away from him. "Trust me, my friend; the gods do not care about your cause. You and your followers are simply men, nothing more, and as such, you are as subject to the gods' whims as anyone. As for truth and honor, they are lovely concepts that pale to insignificance when exposed to the fires of damnation. And vengeance?" He spared a sideways glance at Eliana, and the smile he gave her, though small, filled his eyes with warmth and love and remembrance of ages past. After a second that seemed to last forever, he turned back to Azziz. "Vengeance is too often the misplaced goal of those who would find better solace elsewhere."
"A pretty speech, Egyptian, but I'm all out of time for heartfelt philosophical discussions." Azziz sneered at him, his mouth a cruel slash across his swarthy face. "Perhaps when you reach the afterlife, you can sit down and have a nice little chat with those who have gone before you."
Connelly stepped forward, trying to intercede. "Azziz, for god's sake, put down the gun! You don't want to do this!"
The man didn't even glance his way. "On the contrary, Mr. Connelly, I'm actually rather enjoying myself. Give my regards to Osiris, Egyptian…" His finger moved on the trigger.
Without a thought, Eliana launched herself sideways, shoving a startled Imhotep out of the way. The priest stumbled to the side, pulling Eliana with him. Suddenly, Ardeth found himself with a clear field—Eliana was out of the way, and Azziz hadn't moved so much as a centimeter. It was all he needed, and he took the shot. The blast from the high-powered rifle drowned out the explosion of Azziz's handgun, and without so much as a whimper, the Sudanese diplomat fell to the floor, a look of almost comical surprise on his face. His forehead sported a tiny hole, but behind him, a rapidly enlarging pool of blood spread out in a circular pattern from the gaping exit wound in the rear of his skull. Without a second's hesitation, Ardeth swung the rifle around to where the other Sudanese man stood, mouth open, dumb with shock, gaping at his fallen leader. In moments, he too lay on the floor, dispatched with a bullet through the heart.
But three shots had been fired, and all had found their mark.
The bullet hit before the blasts from the guns had a chance to finish their echoing rumble through the chamber, slamming into Eliana's body with sickening force and spinning her halfway around from the impact. Her gasp of shock was drowned out by the second report of Ardeth's rifle, but Imhotep was beyond hearing, as he caught her in his arms and felt her begin to crumple. Sinking to the ground along with her, he desperately searched her eyes for some hope, some reassurance, but all he could find was confused shock, and a haze of pain. Clutching his arms, she drew in a gasping, shuddering breath.
"Imhotep?" Wincing at the thready wheeze he could hear in her voice, he gently lowered her to the ground, cradling her in his arms, refusing to abandon her to the cold stone of the floor. On her shirt, a blossom of red began to bloom, the stain spreading faster and faster as blood spilled from the wound in her upper abdomen. "I'm so…cold…"
"Shhh, my love," he whispered, pulling her tighter in his arms, willing the heat from his body into hers. If only he could transfer his life force with as much ease as mere warmth. He would give his life for hers without a second's hesitation, without a thought. As she had traded hers for his.
"Eliana, my love, hold on. Please…" His voice cracked and broke, and tears ran unheeded down his face as he stroked her face, her hair, desperate to touch her, hold her, keep her with him somehow, some way. "Please, Eliana. You cannot die. Gods, not again." Suddenly filled with a mindless, burning rage, he turned his face toward the heavens and let his wrath spill out, pouring from the depths of his soul. "Not again!"
By this time, Ardeth had made his way down from the upper mezzanine of the great hall, taking the stairs two and three at a time, and he skidded to a panting halt in front of them. He saw the extent of the damage, the amount of blood that she had already lost, and he cringed inwardly. No one could lose that much blood and survive… Haltingly, he put a tentative hand on Imhotep's shoulder. "Is she…"
Amazingly, the priest allowed the contact. "She is alive."
With an awkward squeeze of the Egyptian man's shoulder, Ardeth backed off. There was nothing he could do, and even less that he could say to offer comfort. Eliana's wound was mortal. It was only a matter of minutes before she was gone. The infernal cycle had begun yet again. With the guilt of centuries weighing him down, Ardeth turned away. He couldn't bear to watch as this unfolded.
She was weakening rapidly, but Eliana still had strength enough to lift her hand to Imhotep's face, the softness of her palm cupping the smooth-shaven skin of his cheek in a tender caress. "Imhotep, I'm…" she gasped again, struggling for breath. "I'm so…sorry." Her face wrinkled into a grimace as pain jolted through her. "Don't want…to…to leave you…again."
"My love—hold on, please, hold on…" Cracked, broken, his voice was a ragged sound of misery as he fought to hold the million fractured pieces of his heart together. "I love you, Eliana-- you are my life, my hope…"
Her strength was fading as fast as the color from her face. With one last effort, she lifted her hand, intending to caress him again, but in her weakness the movement fell short. Instead of touching him, her hand slowly dropped, making in its descent a heart-breaking imitation of the caressing gesture they had devised so long ago.
"Imhotep…" The sound was a breath, a whisper. "Love…you…"
He felt her go limp in his arms. No! No, no, no! Desperately, he touched her face, her lips; he even shook her slightly, trying to rouse her to consciousness once more. The healer in him, the part that knew what was happening, fell by the wayside as the grief-stricken man refused to surrender hope. "Eliana…"
"Imhotep." This time, it was Connelly's hand that fell on the priest's shoulder. Imhotep flinched away from the contact. "She's gone. I'm sorry, man. I'm so sorry…"
Imhotep pulled her even closer to him, cradling her head against his shoulder, rocking slowly back and forth. It suddenly registered in his befuddled brain that he could no longer feel the warmth of her breath against him and with a gasp of anguish he whispered her name. "Eliana…Anck-su-namun…gods, how can this be? This was our chance, our turn…" But the still beauty of her face was unresponsive—a motionless, perfect mask.
Slowly, the priest lifted his head, his pain-ridden eyes meeting and holding the solid, sympathetic blue of Connelly's gaze. Another irony—and the pain of this one struck and burned down to the very core of his new-found humanity. In his mind's eye, Imhotep could clearly see Rick O'Connell, crouched weeping by his dying wife Evelyn, as a coldly uncaring Imhotep and a viciously pleased Meela, Evelyn's blood staining her hands, walked past them and into the pyramid some seventy years ago. The circle had been drawn perfectly, with precise, merciless symmetry. Their punishment was coldly flawless, an emotionless rendering of karmic justice that was brilliant in its simplicity.
A perfect circle, ending where it had begun, only to start the endless cycle once more.
Imhotep had no words to express his emotions at that moment—the grief, the loss, the guilt—so he remained silent, and turned his eyes back to the face of the woman he loved. The woman he had lost yet again. He knew better, this time, than to even attempt to take matters into his own hands and try to bring her back. Even if he knew where to find the Black Book of the Dead, he would not use it. Better to let her go, to let her try to find some sort of peace. Amun-Re had lifted the curse from Imhotep's soul; perhaps it was not too much to hope that the curse had been lifted from hers, as well, here at the end. The highest imaginable price had now been extracted; how could her debt not have been repaid?
Gently, he ran his hand over the coolness of her skin, tracing the line of her face, the arch of her brow, the curve of her lips. "Goodbye, my love," he whispered, "may the gods speed you on your way to the lands of the west, and may your soul live forever in the light of a thousand suns."
Callie raced down the staircase and across the room, followed by Robillard and a handful of technicians. The gunshots, although muffled by distance and the thick stone of the pyramid, had caught her attention as she made her way through the huge structure, looking for Bernstein. It was still his dig to manage, and he deserved to know about the incident in the lab. The faint popping sounds, two in quick succession, echoed by another, seconds later, had been followed by dead silence. The noises could have been anything, but some inner instinct told her they were not. Wheeling around, she had raced back to the lab, and rounded up whomever she could convince to come along. Robillard, by then suffering from a sore throat and a throbbing headache from his two-hour long bout of raging at his hapless staff, had decided to join them. The trip back to the great hall, where she thought the sounds had originated, took less than two minutes.
With one quick glance, Callie took in the scene, noting the blood, the bodies, the grieving man, the shell-shocked witnesses. The Sudanese men—Azziz? Who was the other?—lying on the floor were obviously dead. But Eliana … She stepped forward, heading for Imhotep and the woman he cradled in his arms, but a hand on her wrist stopped her. Matt shook his head, a soundless warning against her intrusion. For a second, a feeling of dizziness washed over her, a shadow pain lanced through her, and she clutched at her own stomach. For a second, it was her on the ground, her life seeping out from her, and instead of Imhotep, it was Matt…no, some other name, some other time…cradling her close, weeping over the body of the woman he loved…
She stared at Eliana and saw her face blur, darken, replaced by another face—exotic, beautiful—a sneering, vicious face that took pleasure in the pain she caused with a brutal twist of the knife. Imhotep's visage remained the same, but the eyes—his eyes were hard, cold, empty of anything but a demonic glow and a single-minded thirst for vengeance and power. The man she had come to know—and even admire—over the last few days was gone, replaced by a menacing monster. A phantom pain struck her again, and she turned her face towards…Rick?…Matt, clutching at his arm for support as she felt her knees begin to buckle.
Connelly grabbed her by both arms as she teetered there, swaying in the gale force blast of some psychic hurricane. "Callie? Callie…what's wrong?" Callie? That's not my name…why is he calling me that? My name is…name was… The name would not come to her, but the pain, the fear, the desperate sense of loss, they were real, so real. Rick…take care…of… Alex…love you… Callie fought against the tide of otherness, struggling back through the undertow of long-dead feelings and memories, swimming back to herself against a dark, deep current that was determined to sweep her away.
Slowly, with the sensation of dead fingers loosing their grip on the last vestiges of the life they were leaving behind, the feeling of déjà vu passed, leaving behind nothing but a residual dizziness and a renewed awareness of the preciousness of life. With an angry frown, she shook off Connelly's restraining hands, leaving him to stand in dazed confusion, staring after her as she knelt beside the priest. The face that the Egyptian man turned towards her was the face she knew, and there was nothing in the dark depths of his eyes but an agony of pain and fear. And Eliana's face was only hers—no evil doppelganger lurked beneath the surface. All was the same, yet all had changed…
A gentle hand on Imhotep's arm was a voiceless request for permission, and as he moved slightly aside, she could see where the bullet had torn through cloth and flesh, ripping its way into Eliana's body. She saw the blood that pooled and puddled on the stone floor, and cringed inside. So much blood loss…
But the entry wound was on the upper right quadrant of the abdomen, which meant it had not come near the heart, had missed the stomach, and while it had resulted in massive blood loss, blood loss could be compensated for… Ripping off her sweater, she wadded it into place against the bullet wound and applied pressure to stop the steady flow. Placing two fingers on Eliana's neck, Callie felt for a pulse. Nothing. No, wait! There it was, thready, weak, almost nonexistent…
Not looking, she called to the one person who she thought might be able to give her a truthful, reasonably accurate answer. "Matt, how long?"
"About a minute, maybe a little more, maybe a little less…" He instinctively knew she wanted to know how long Eliana had been unconscious. "But, Doc…
"Hush!" Tearing her stethoscope from around her neck, Callie shoved it into placed and listened. No breath sounds. It was almost too late… But almost wasn't certainty, and Callie had had enough of death and dying out here in this godforsaken jungle. Robillard was a colossal pain-in-the-ass, but his medical equipment was first-rate, and he had brought enough of it with him to fully outfit any surgical field hospital she had ever seen.
She turned to Imhotep, gently moving Eliana from his arms and laying her down on the floor. Although he would not have allowed Connelly, or even Ardeth Bay, to take her from him, something in the compassionate light in her eyes convinced Imhotep to surrender Eliana to Callie.
"I will try." She answered the unspoken question in his eyes, taking his hand and putting it in place where hers had been, pressing hard against the wound to staunch the blood. Her eyes not leaving the Egyptian man's, she moved slightly, shifting herself and Eliana into position as she called out to Robillard. "I'm starting CPR. There's still a chance. Looks like the bullet nicked the liver, maybe one of the major vessels, and it's still in there somewhere. There's still a pulse, but it's weak, and fading fast."
She folded her hands and began the rhythmic chest compressions that would do the work for Eliana's heart, stopped to breath into the other woman's mouth. When she resumed the compressions, she looked at the still-unmoving French doctor. "What the hell are you doing? Get your people moving, get a stretcher, and let's get going." She stopped to breath into Eliana's mouth once more. "Time to test out that fancy equipment of yours, and see if your surgical skills are as impressive as your ego."
His jaw dropping in open-mouthed shock, Robillard waved to his assistants, who had already anticipated the order and were halfway across the great hall and gaining speed. The infirmary was not that far away; the equipment was in reach. But even with Imhotep's hands holding back the tide of red and Callie doing the work of her heart and lungs, with every second that passed, more of Eliana's life seeped out onto the pyramid's cold golden floor.
Through the enveloping cold, she sensed the hands, felt the sudden weightlessness as she was lifted, lifted… Then, the hammock-like support of the stretcher and the jerky, bouncing motion of running feet. But all around, there was the cold, and the dark, and the emptiness…
Get that IV running. Push fluids… No! Let it run…wide open…
Tired. She was so tired. The dark pulled at her, tugged at her with gentle hands, warm hands that were a comforting counterpoint to the icy cold that blanketed her, pushing down on her with a crushing heaviness. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe, could barely feel, barely hear…
Pressure… 80 over…40…dropping… Can't…get…normal rhythm…tachycardia…dammit!…full arrest… Get…defibrillator… Shot of epi…directly in…heart…
No pain, no sensation at all now. Just the dark, and the warmth and the feeling of being pulled away from something, somewhere… Strange, that sudden twinge of loss she felt. More like a feeling remembered than one that she actually experienced. Feelings were meaningless, nonexistent here. They were…before…ago…then… There was nothing now, nothing but the endless expanse of empty, vibrant darkness. It went on forever, limitless, boundless, empty of everything but full of all things… She felt herself seeping away, oozing out of her pores, floating off into the waiting nothingness…
Charge to 200… Clear…A jolt of white hot lightning flashed through her, and for a moment, no more, the weightless freedom was gone, and she felt an overpowering heaviness, a crushing sense of being. And the pain was back, and it hurt, hurt, hurt. The cold was replaced by white hot, fiery pain and she pulled away from it, struggling, flailing, the entire battle one of the psyche, not of the body. The dark called to her, but so did the light, and in the light there was something, something…no, someone. Love you…Eliana…my love…Anck-su-namun… But the dark was insidious, powerful, seductive in its velvety omnipotence. The voice was a fading beacon, and the dark was everywhere, all around, and it was tempting, so tempting, to just let go, give in, go on…
Giving up? No!… Can't…any more…don't care… All right…one more time…charging… Clear…The lightning struck her again, but this time she was ready for it, pushing away from herself, from her body, slipping out silent and soundless from the constraints of flesh and blood, sinew and bone. There was a sense of letting go, a brief moment of loss, as that voice echoed through the vacuum once more, but the warmth was so comforting, so good…
Beyond hearing anything now, she surrendered herself to the emptiness and embraced the dark.