Annabeth Neverending (13 page)

“Don’t worry; you and C. J. have my blessing. After all, I was a priest,” Gabriel says with a sneer, his eyebrows arching threateningly.

Suddenly, the lights, all the equipment in the place, begin to
flicker
unevenly
,
accompanied by a low humming noise.

“What was that?” I ask, skittish, my flesh crawling.

“It must have been a power surge.”

I realize that Gabriel could be a totally unique person who just happens to share the same soul as a black sorcerer. But unfortunately, I have a hard time believing that’s true. Isn’t good or evil a pretty soul
-
defining dimension? Especially when he seems to be bursting with hatred at the moment.

I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. I wanted to see it through because I have feelings for him. But my fear is taking control. I wanted to rise against it and fight the good fight, but I need to come to terms with reality; and the sooner, the better.

We’re a lost cause.

C. J. walks in the door, wearing a wrestling jacket and an innocent expression. Little does he know what transpired seconds before his arrival, even though he was at the root of it, the very cause of our demise. Gabriel examines his brother while clenching his jaw.

“I should’ve known you’d show up. She’s waiting for you. In fact, it sounds like she’s been waiting for some time.”

C. J. looks bewildered and nods meekly. His sibling heads out, and I don’t go after him. I don’t stop him. Because in an instant, I’ve lost all hope.

“What’s the matter with him?” he asks.

“He just broke up with me,” I say, hardly able to get out the words, and even less capable of finding them true.

To his credit, C. J. looks as shocked as I feel. “I’m sorry, Annabeth. I don’t like seeing you this upset. Not when you’ve been dealing with so much already. Do you want me to talk to him for you? Maybe I can help.”

I consider his offer, but there’s no point getting him involved. Not when I think this is probably for the best.

“Thanks, C. J., but we should take it easy for a while anyway.”

“I’m sure there’s a good reason for this. I know how deeply he feels for you.”

Of all people to be helping me, it’s C. J. But then, hasn’t that always been his role? His soul is made of sweetness and light. And even if I don’t want his assistance, I don’t think I have a choice.

“It’ll get better,” he says, grinning hopefully.

I force a smile in return, even though it feels particularly foreign to my lips.

I pray he’s right, but if so, why do I feel like I’ll never recover?

13

L
osing Gabriel has been so agonizing I don’t know how I can bear it. They may call it a heartache, but it’s amounted to a headache, a bodyache, a soulache. Every square inch of me hurts. Strangely, I relish the pain. It’s a reminder of what almost was, even if it was cut short. Even if that’s all there will ever be.

Yes, C. J. has slipped in effortlessly, conveniently, to replace him. Not with love
—
it’s too soon for that
—
but with genuine friendship. His unending emotional support has helped ease the strain, but a hurt so deep, so profound, takes time to overcome.

And so I go through the motions, though none too successfully. I thought depression was supposed to make you sleep, but it has the opposite effect on me. It revs me up in the middle of the night, in my sterile hospital room. I’m trying not to let it consume me. After all, I need to at least act like I’m awake and healthy. It’s the only way I’ll get discharged.

But it’s hard to forget Gabriel. His sparkling blue eyes, his knowing smirk. His absence makes me long for him in the most excruciating way. Yet he’s made his choice clear by giving me the cold shoulder.

Hopefully I can prove that my body has healed, if not my heart. And so I fidget on my sagging hospital mattress while waiting for the doctor to come in to examine me.

Dr. Zaki enters, sporting a fading shiner. He tries to act like a professional, like he isn’t overtly blaming me, even though I suspect that inside he is. He handles me with kid gloves, or at least the latex variety, probably worried that I could strike again at any moment.

He shines a bright white orb of light into my eye. My mother is standing nearby, helicoptering with agitation.

“We just got back the results on your pendant. It required special testing. You see, the gold is mixed with an alloy, one that hasn’t been seen since antiquity.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a metal called
orichalcum
. And you’ll find this interesting. They carbon dated it and traced it back to ancient Egypt,” he says, looking strangely amused.

“Really? So there’s scientific proof!” I cry.

“Of what, exactly?” he asks.

“Of it being a valuable antique,” I say, beaming unintentionally.

“The lab extracted enough of the alloy for us to do a patch test. This way we’ll know for certain that the orichalcum was behind your latest problems,” Dr. Zaki announces, no doubt proud of finally producing a finite answer.

My mom is ready to jump right in and do the test, so she knows what we’re dealing with, but I want to consider it more carefully. While on one level I’m all for a controlled
-
exposure situation, on another I worry that my response to it will be too strong.

“What if I have another seizure?” I ask.

“That’s unlikely, Annabeth. You’ll be exposed to such a small amount. But we’ll have you lie down, just in case.”

Maybe it won’t do anything. Or if it does, perhaps it’ll cause nothing more than a fever or a craving for dates. I try not to get my hopes up about a full
-
on voyage down memory lane. Of course, I’m fearful as well. What if I see something terrifying like I did during my last flashback? But then, who knows how long the ankh will be gone?

This could be the last chance I have to access my memories for a long time. It’s time to seize the day (no pun intended). To see my birth parents, delve deeper into my relationship with Sethe, and discover whether or not I was forced to marry Kha.

I brace myself while the doctor meticulously applies a patch to the pale flesh of my upper arm. In seconds his office is a blur of chrome and white.

Flashing…turning…melding…

It is the long
-
anticipated time of the Sed jubilee. Egyptians have flown into the capital from all over the empire, eager to celebrate the reign of Ramses for seven nights of feasting, storytelling, and singing.
While I should be enjoying myself and participating in the festivities, I simply cannot, for Sethe is about to wrestle to the death. And while I am confident in his skills, I dread the outcome. If he were to die, I would cease to exist.

The place is full of slick, sweating bodies. A preponderance of slaves is stationed at the periphery, waving giant fans of iridescent ostrich feathers at a crowd of spectators. Kha is standing next to me, pressing himself against me, though my body responds by jerking away. If only I could insert whole oceans between us, but even then it would not be far enough.

“Witnessing two slaves fight hardly seems a proper way to kick off the jubilee,” Kha jeers while sizing them both up. “Let us see which of these Hittite slaves lives to tell the tale,” he says with menace.

“Seeing as Sethe belongs to me, you can imagine where my loyalty lies. Must they fight to such a grisly finish?” I ask, brooding.

“Therein lies the entertainment,” Kha retorts.

Sethe and a countryman, Taru, prepare to fight each other while waiting in the center of the ring. The crowd chants for these two men to tear each other to pieces. Ramses watches from his throne, pounding his fists in anticipation. Nefertari sits next to him upon her own throne, but she does not seem as caught up in the furor. The referee, a rickety old man in a knotted sarong, comes out to address the crowd.

“Sethe, from Kadesh! And Taru, from Hattusa! You may commence your bout,” the elder cries, throwing his arms in the air.

Sethe and Taru grapple and lunge at each other with numerous false starts. They are too perfectly matched in terms of skill and strength. Sethe finally leaps in and throws his arms around Taru’s shoulders in what must be an attempt to topple him and force him to the ground. Taru stays steady at first, but Sethe manages to knock him off balance.

Though it makes me squirm, the crowd is on edge with excitement, as the match clearly satisfies both their bloodlust and urge for great sportsmanship in one fell swoop. Sethe grabs Taru’s arm and twists it around behind him so far that he shrieks in agony. By now, Sethe’s surely pulled it from its socket. Finally, Sethe sets Taru prostrate. He could easily destroy him with his bare hands. Will he?

No. For Sethe releases his competitor and gets down on one knee, lowering his head in surrender.

“I cannot bring myself to kill my compatriot. Do what you must to me. For I would rather die than shed the blood of my Hittite brother!”

I feel as though I shall shrivel to dust. Surely Majesty Father will want to have him brutally executed for his insubordination. But instead, my father smiles broadly and addresses the crowd.

“Let them both live! Sethe, you have earned my undying admiration.”

His subjects rejoice, and I moan with relief. I notice the look on Kha’s face. He is clearly disgusted. Surely he finds Ramses weak, sentimental. Only my Sethe could elicit such a reaction from my father, and only my Sethe could be so honorable in the face of imminent death.

There is a flash of light, images flicker, transparent, overlapping.

Worried drops of sweat pour off my brow. My own stick
-
fighting match is about to begin. It has been spoken of near and far, and I must make my father proud. Perhaps then I will gain his favor by fighting so well that he will let me go live with the women of the Amazon. That, at least, would be preferable to Kha. How can I be bound in marriage to the picture of pure evil?

I nervously put on my body armor. Sethe watches me as I strap on my armband, my hand trembling all the while.

“Remember to stay on your guard. Do not give her the opportunity to take control,” counsels Sethe.

I nod. I shall be fighting a Nubian warrior woman. The Nubian people are known for their exceptional stick
-
fighting abilities, so I fear that I will not triumph this day.

“May Bes grant you luck and glory, Princess,” Kha says while entering, startling me with his unwanted appearance.

I give a forced grin to my newly betrothed, though the very sight of him rattles me. It cannot be that I fought against a match to my brother only to wind up in a far worse situation. Though I suppose that would figure. Perhaps the gods have found fit to punish me.

Kha regards me sternly. “The scope of the match has changed. You will no longer be fighting a Nubian. Instead, you shall spar with my sister.”

I am stunned to silence. How can this be? How could Majesty Father condone such a thing?

“And I want you to throw the match. It is important that Isetnofret garner the favor of God Who Walks on Earth. When they are married, it shall help secure my position.”

“Whatever you command, Kha,” I say, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.

So this is how it will be. I am not enough of a conquest; Kha also wants his sister to marry my father. His hunger for power is beyond compare, and what I bring to the table will not be enough to sate it.

Kha looks placated by my acquiescence. He makes his way to his place in the stands. Sethe’s shoulders fall in resigned anger.

“We are both slaves, in a way, though I have the kinder master,” says my dearest, most sweetly, most regretfully.

Yes, I am a slave to my title, my position. While there have been moments when Sethe and I could forget our unfortunate state, there has always been a dark shadow hanging over us of frustration and despair.

I may be trapped in a terrible circumstance, but it is nothing compared to his. He has lost so much more. He has been torn from his home, taken from all he knows, forced to learn a new language and new ways, only to be considered the lowest of the low, a piece of property who lives only to serve.

And now, after our emotions toward one another have taken on new resonance, he must sit idly by and watch me marry another. One who reeks of wickedness. Surely Sethe’s sadness extends further than the desert sand. But if his is a greater sorrow than mine, I do not know how he has the will to go on. For at times I feel like my resolve may leave me. But for now, perhaps I can have one tiny triumph. To honor the both of us, to celebrate our love, I can fight.

I look at Sethe, the fire burning in my eyes so hot I can scarcely stand to blink.

“I will crush her.”

“That is not wise, Ana. You must choose your victories even if you cannot choose your battles. She is hardly worth the trouble.”

But I am headstrong, and for once I do not want to listen to Sethe, even though he is probably right. It seems as though he is always right. Yet this may be the only chance I have to savor what little freedom I have left.

I step toward the arena and see this Isetnofret standing before me. She looks confident, and while I have heard little of her fighting prowess, I seek to intimidate her with my own self
-
assurance. Sethe says that is the first step to defeat. One that happens before the fight has even begun.

I soon find myself in the center of the immense sand
-
filled ring, surrounded by rowdy crowds of spectators, and we cross sticks. This starting pose is a bit hard to hold, because I’m so anxious to get started. We connect, and as the match progresses, I am disappointed to discover that she is a worthy opponent. Our sparring grows increasingly complicated, rife with strings of gymnastics and near injuries. My resolve to demolish her is stronger than her resolve to make a name for herself. And I am about to beat her with ease.

I delve right in. This is the closest I have been to her. I observe her countenance, as it is best to know one’s enemy. I examine her aquiline nose, her icy blue eyes that prove her family hails from another region, her shining black hair that waves while mine curls beneath my wig. She bears a disturbing resemblance to Kha. Though she is pretty, surely she is no queen. And if I were to whack her in the face, then she would certainly lose most of her appeal. Tempting as it may be, I cannot bring myself to be that cruel. Yet hitting her anywhere is no longer an option. Kha is holding me back.

I glance in his direction, and he appears to be meditating. His angular jaw is clenched, and his eyebrows are knit together in concentration. While his hands are buried in his lap, I am certain that his fingers are up to no good once more. Kha has powers that must far exceed the earthly kind that Amun possesses. What have I done? Had I not rallied, had I not thrown a fit, I would not be in such peril.

There is a flash, and the time and place changes.

The gong is struck. That is the signal we all know, the sound that means that we must rush to the throne room. Once there, I see Majesty Father’s other families gathering. Most are Egyptian, but some matriarchs are from other areas, such as Greece and Rome. There is even a Hittite princess father married to seal a peace treaty. These are all results of political alliances he made, and these wives rank only above those families headed by members of his harem.

I do not generally interact with any of them. I keep to my own kind, seeing as I am from the first family, the daughter of the most prized wife. There is no need for me to degrade myself by associating with the lesser sorts
—
at least that is what Majesty Mother tells me. Though through Sethe I have come to understand that no person is better than another simply because of one’s place in society. And right now, I wish I had forged a relationship with them, built a bond with them, as they are my extended family. Then I could ask them if they know what the announcement is about. Finally, my mother arrives, looking concerned.