And hating, then loving, then hating again, he beckoned to her, his Krysty, his Nefertiti, his Connaught, his mother and lover and tool and breeder—
Krysty sat upright in the water, blinking against the dark, disturbing visions crowding into her mind. Her hair knotted tightly at her nape, like the fist of a frightened child. She wanted to weep, to run, to hide herself away. She didn’t know why. Very vaguely, very distantly, she knew she had peered at a fragment of Akhnaton’s soul he had tried to keep concealed.
Pushing the restless, uneasy thoughts far back into a recess of her mind, she concentrated on finishing her bath. She arose finally, dried and perfumed herself, wondering absently where Nefron might be.
She strolled out into the bedchamber, wrapped in a soft robe of blue wool. She had lingered in her bath overlong, and it was near midmorning. Leaning listlessly against the table, she dwelled on the future and what it might bring to her, as the consort of a god.
A quick three-rap rhythm sounded from the door, a signal that she almost recognized from another time, another life. Wearily, she called, “Enter.”
One of the double doors opened just enough to admit a scantily clad black woman carrying a tray of sliced and artfully arranged fruit. Krysty had seen the woman before, but dressed in faded khakis, not dressed like a—
“Mildred?” Krysty asked, a faint line of consternation creasing her brow.
Placing the tray on the table, Mildred put a finger to her lips. “I’ve brought you breakfast.”
“Where’s Nefron? This is her job. She’s supposed to help me dress.”
Mildred shook her head at Krysty’s troubled, slightly petulant tone. She pressed a large apple into her hands. “Eat this first. It’s a gift from Ryan.”
“Ryan? The one-eyed man.”
Mildred stared hard into her face, examining every inch of it. With an index finger, she drew an invisible line before Krysty’s eyes.
“What are you doing?” Krysty asked irritably.
“Eat the apple.” Mildred’s voice was flat, devoid of emotions.
“Why?”
“Just do it.” Mildred turned to leave. Then, on impulse, she turned and hugged her quickly. Before she left the chamber, Krysty was sure she had seen moisture in the woman’s eyes.
Krysty looked at the apple in her hand, then bit into it thoughtfully. As she nibbled around the stem, her teeth struck a hard, unyielding object. Muttering peevishly, Krysty worked out the metal ankh cunningly concealed within the fruit.
Frowning, she studied it as it lay in her palm. There was something about its shape that seemed familiar. She closed her fingers around it.
An uncanny chill shook her. Her pulse and heartbeat rose, deafening her. Her fist trembled around the cool, slick metal. Within her was a maelstrom of spinning energies combining hate, fear and triumph.
Krysty Wroth’s self, the center of consciousness that defined her identity, was sucked into this mental whirlpool. She forgot who Akhnaton wanted her to be and remembered who she was.
She took a deep breath and glanced around her chambers. They looked the same as in the previous moment, but they were undeniably, subtly different now. The walls exuded the same cold atmosphere as a prison cell and, for a moment, she couldn’t understand why.
Then, like a crashing of a surf, she remembered what Danielson had said. The shape of the amulet is a closed double-helix energy pattern. It protects my bioaural field from the resonating mena energies.
She clenched her teeth so hard, they squeaked and her jaw muscles ached. She knew instantly what had been done to her, and she knew who had done it.
“You bitch,” she hissed. “You double-dealing, vicious little bitch.”
She also knew that Akhnaton had simply followed the path his daughter had blazed. He was equally responsible. Krysty remembered what she had vowed to Ryan four days and a thousand years ago: He got into my head and played with me, like I was a sex puppet. Whether he’s a pharaoh, god or mutant, and whether he wants me to bear his children or warm his bed, I’ll provide him with a surprise that will give him nightmares for the rest of his life.