'Does your father have other daughters?' The hand on Nyssa's cheek caressed her chin, gripping it suddenly and pulling it upwards so she was forced to look into the man's face again. It was not a rough gesture, rather it was almost gentle. 'It would be a shame if such beauty was unique.'

'My father's dead.' And for the first time Nyssa found she really believed that. He was not coming back; he had not just gone away; her father was dead. A short word that covered a condition that would last forever. No funeral, no time for tears, just an emptiness so deep that it ached. 'Dead,'

Nyssa repeated, and the word hung in the cold air with a blunt monosyllabic finality.

The man nodded slowly. 'I have heard it said that a father should not outlive his children,' he said quietly, so that only Nyssa heard him. Then his mouth twisted into a sudden smile and he snapped his fingers. The bald man was immediately handed a thick roll of cloth. The man gripped the hem of the cloth and let a long cloak unroll. He draped it over Nyssa's shoulders and pulled it tight around her. Then he stepped back to admire the result. 'There,' he said, 'that's better.'

'Who are you?' Nyssa was aware that her voice was shaking. She hoped the man thought it was from the cold rather than from fear. 'What do you want with me?'

'So many questions, so little patience.' The man started to turn away.

'Why have you brought me back here?'

The man paused, then swung back to face her. His face was still set in its half-smile. 'Oh Nyssa, Nyssa,' he shook his head.

She gasped. 'You know who I am?'

'Of course. I have always known. Or at least, it sometimes seems that way.'

He gave a slight bow, barely more than an inclination of his bald head. 'I am Sadan Ra.s.sul, High Priest of Sutekh and Nephthys, as was my father before me. And I have been waiting for you.'

He turned away again, cape swirling in the breeze, and started to walk slowly towards the main doors of the museum. Yusuf pushed Nyssa after him, and she was aware of others following behind him. A single flake of snow landed on the smooth back of Ra.s.sul's head. It lingered for a second in the gaslight before melting slowly into a drop of water which ran down his hairless neck like a tear down a mourner's cheek.

As she stumbled her way after Ra.s.sul, Nyssa realized that the others were walking with the same measured tread as their leader. It reminded her for a moment of a ceremonial procession on Traken.

It reminded her of a funeral cortege.

The candles guttered and danced in the draught from the open door. The light flickered across the relics and played along the walls. It pooled on the floor, reflected off the high windows.

If she had not remembered the path they had taken to get back there, Nyssa might not have recognized the relic room. As she was guided in, it seemed to Nyssa that every available surface hosted a candelabra. Each of the candles kept its own tiny halo within reach, allowing it to toss and twist but never to break free of the fizzling wick. Shadows crept across the room, and then jumped back into the gloom as a flame edged towards them for a second before changing direction again. Trails of oily black smoke spiralled upwards towards the ceiling as if rising through murky water, desperate to reach the air.

The dark figures of her cloaked captors processed slowly through the room.

A dark cat watched their progress with statue eyes; the dead faces painted on the sarcophagi followed their journey to the far end of the long room.

Nyssa let herself be carried with the tide. She could smell the acrid candle fumes, could taste the caustic smoke in the back of her dry mouth. She tried not to cough and the effort brought tears to her eyes. Tears that she had been trying to keep inside.

As they neared the end of the room, Nyssa could smell something else.

There was a perfumed, sweet, almost sticky smell. Incense and flowers, honey and myrrh. She looked round, trying to locate the source, and out of the corner of an eye caught sight of the flicker-lit blue of the TARDIS. She gasped, taking in a deep mouthful of the sticky sweetness. She almost laughed for joy, but the sound stuck in her throat as she was pushed forward, away from the hope of escape.

Her vision was blurring, hazing over as a firm hand on her shoulder drew Nyssa to a stop. She blinked back the smoky tears and saw that she was standing in front of the sarcophagus Tegan had been examining. A lifetime ago. The dark, impa.s.sive, carved face stared back at her. The arms were crossed over the chest, each hand holding a staff. Almost unconsciously Nyssa copied the gesture, bringing her cloak tighter about her. A phrase of Tegan's lingered in the back of her memory: 'Cross my heart.'

Beside the sarcophagus stood tall incense burners, one each side.

Through the increasing muzziness of the sweet haze, Nyssa registered that the sticky smell was dripping from the smoking contents of the bowls of the burners. She swayed on her feet, feeling the weight of her body rock on the backs of her heels for a second.

Ra.s.sul stepped in front of Nyssa. He bowed low to the sarcophagus, then turned to face her. With a swift movement he shrugged off his cape.

Beneath it his chest was bare, adorned only with a gold necklace which hung in heavy strands across his torso. Below it he wore what looked like an ornate skirt.

Nyssa swayed again, as if in the breeze, and noted with a light-headed giggle that he wore sandals on his feet. The leather twisted into an oval over his toes. The shape mirrored the curled end of the stave the sarcophagus figure held.

The other figures cl.u.s.tered round behind Nyssa, attention fixed on Ra.s.sul.

When he spoke, his voice had taken on a deep, plangent tone that echoed round the room, glancing off caskets and cutting a path through the smoke and incense.

'The time is now.' He raised his arms above his head. 'We bring the chosen one to the gateway at the appointed time. It is as it was written; as I remember it to have been.' Ra.s.sul turned back to the sarcophagus, crossing his arms across his chest, imitating the carved figure. 'I make the sign of the eye, and send you a new receptacle. The chosen one.'

Somewhere deep within the sarcophagus a hum of energy was building. A blue light flickered with the candles across the face of the casket.

'From across the ages, we provide your continuing imprisonment, and your ultimate release. When Orion is aligned, when power is rife, then it is said that you will live again.'

The noise was rising like a major chord on a large organ. The blue light strobed into a swirling vortex of colour, and the front of the sarcophagus dissolved into a whirl of light bleeding into its dark outline.

'The waiting is almost over. I begin the final act.' Ra.s.sul's laugh echoed over the chord.

Nyssa felt herself propelled towards the vortex. She struggled for a moment, but then realized that n.o.body was holding her, n.o.body was pushing her. But in the second she looked behind, she saw a figure through the incense-mist, a figure standing behind Ra.s.sul's followers. Watching.

The figure stepped back into the shadows as Nyssa turned away again. But she had caught a glimpse of him, had seen the shadow of his ruined face.

But the image that her retina retained was not the pallid glow of the moonlight on the sunken, blackened features of his face. It was the snow

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clinging to his matted hair and his heavy cloak. The snow which seemed to have crystallized into a layer of ice, when it should have melted in the heat from his body.

Nyssa was being drawn closer, into the kaleidoscope of light. She clasped her hands tightly over her shoulders as the blackness closed around her and Ra.s.sul's laughter faded into the hazy distance.

'Cross my heart,' Tegan's voice murmured in Nyssa's ear as she fell from consciousness and into the casket. 'Cross my heart, and hope to die.'

'I'm sorry, Lord Kenilworth, but I'm going to have to ask you to trust me.'

The Doctor clenched and unclenched his hands as he spoke.

But Kenilworth snorted at his exasperation. 'Well, wouldn't be the first time, would it?' He drew on his cigar and let out a breath of smoke. It drifted across the drawing room, thinning and dissolving somewhere above the mantelpiece. 'Reckon you deserve that though, after everything.'

'Yes, well,' the Doctor scratched his head, half stood up from where he was seated on the sofa, then sat down again. 'I'd rather we didn't discuss that in any detail, if you don't mind.'

'Why not?' Tegan was standing on the far side of the room, arms folded, staring down into the coffin. She looked up, and the Doctor had to twist in the sofa to see her properly. 'What's happening here, Doctor?' She held his gaze for several seconds. 'I want to know.'

'Well, if we're to help Nyssa, there are some things I need to know. But I'm wary of knowing too much.'

'Not much fear of that so far.'

'Tegan,' the Doctor chided.

'So what do you want to know, eh?' Kenilworth was examining his port. He took a sip and nodded appreciatively.

The Doctor picked up his own gla.s.s, stared at it for a moment, then put it carefully back on the table beside him. 'I must ask you to bear with me, Kenilworth. I'm going to ask you about things which you will tell me I already know. But please answer my questions about where and when the mummy was found as best you can. And please don't add any extra information, I only want a direct answer.'

Kenilworth shrugged. 'Fire away, old man.'

The Doctor turned back to Tegan. 'And I'd be grateful if you could curb your natural inquisitiveness for a while, Tegan.'

She stared at him. 'Doctor, Nyssa is in a coffin here dying.' Her voice had dropped an octave. 'I want to know why. And I want to know how to save her.'

'So do I, Tegan. Believe me, so do I.' The Doctor heaved himself out of the sofa and crossed to her. He hesitated a moment, hand raised, then he patted her gently on the shoulder. 'But there are wider implications. There's great danger in knowing too much. We will help Nyssa - I think we already have. But we can't risk damaging the web of time.'

'Please, Doctor,' Tegan whispered. 'She's all I have left.'

The Doctor blinked.

'Apart from you.'

'I'm doing what I can, Tegan.' He shook his head. 'If good old Blinovitch could see me now, he'd be turning in his urn.'

The Doctor gave a short laugh. Then he stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and coughed, staring at the floor. 'Sorry,' he muttered, and turned away.

A stream of bright sunlight made Nyssa blink. It brought tears to her eyes, and she rubbed at them as she sat up. She found herself sitting up inside a box. Or rather a casket - it looked like the same sarcophagus as she had fallen into in the British Museum, but without the lid.

She looked round the room. A large gla.s.sless window allowed the sun to shine directly into the stone-floored room. A gold jug and goblets stood on a low wooden table by the door, and heavy tapestries hung across the walls. Two chairs stood angled towards the casket, which was raised on a dais. In one of the chairs sat a man.

Nyssa's first thought was that it was Ra.s.sul. He wore a similar necklace and kilt, and he was completely bald. But he was older, much older.

Wrinkles creased his brow and the flesh on his chest sagged over a full belly. Behind him stood a young woman, her dark hair cut into straight lengths to her shoulders. She wore a skirt similar to the man's kilt, and an ornate halter top which looked as though it was made of gold and studded with semi-precious stones. The stones glinted in the sunlight.

'Welcome,' said the man. 'I am Amosis, priest of the G.o.ddess.'

'G.o.ddess?' the sunlight seemed less intense now that her eyes had adjusted and Nyssa glanced back towards the window. Outside she could see the pointed silhouettes of two huge pyramids outlined against the horizon, the sun shining between them, hardening their edges.

'And this is Sitamun, handmaiden to the G.o.ddess.' Amosis gestured to the woman. She smiled nervously and stepped forward so she was level with the priest's chair.

'What G.o.ddess? What's going on? What is this place?' Nyssa was suddenly incredibly tired. She felt herself slumping back into the casket.

'Why, you are the G.o.ddess,' Amosis said quietly. 'Or at least, you will be.'

Nyssa felt the cold base of the casket hard against her back.

'I welcome you as the chosen one of the G.o.ds. The new Nephthys.'

The Valley of the Kings - 2000 BC The air was hot and close, sweat dripping from the stone walls of the pa.s.sageway. Ma.s.sud beckoned, waving the smoking torch to illuminate the way. The others stumbled after him, elation at their success so far tempered by trepidation about what lay ahead.

They had been digging for days. Or rather, for nights. Long nights, hidden from the daily observations of the priest-guardians of the tomb on the far side of the valley. The tunnel was low and narrow, in contrast to the high vaulted ceiling of the wide, sloping pa.s.sageway they had intersected. Their goal, their calling, their G.o.ddess was in sight. So they stumbled onwards, oblivious to the heat and the humidity, not caring about the stale air or the darkness. They feared only the G.o.ddess, and failure.

The heavy doors were sealed with a crimson rope. It was tied tightly around the huge handles, knotted and dipped in wax. The decay of the ages clung to the cord, and it exploded in a cloud of dust and frayed fragments as Ma.s.sud cut through it with his knife. With a backward glance to his comrades - sufficient to gain their confidence and approval, but not enough to be infected by their anxiety and fear - he pushed against the heavy double doors. And with a creak of ancient protest, they swung slowly open.

The eye of Horus watched unblinking, disapproving, from where it was inlaid in the pa.s.sage floor. A faint glow suffused the air around the ornate pupil, a reflection perhaps of the torches above it as they cl.u.s.tered in the doorway. Then Ma.s.sud stepped tentatively over the threshold. And the eye at his feet flashed brilliant red.

The wind ripped through the pa.s.sage like a typhoon. Ma.s.sud was the only one of them inside the doorway, and yet the hurricane that erupted from inside seemed to sweep past him. He staggered forwards in the eye of the gale, while his comrades were blown against the pa.s.sage walls. He was oblivious to their fate as he battled his way onwards into the tomb.

Behind him, Ma.s.sud's brother Ahmed crashed into one of the open doors.

Blood streamed from his face as he collapsed back on to the floor and tumbled away. Thutmos the camel trader clawed at the cracks between the stone slabs on the floor, his fingers tearing and the skin rippling on his cheeks. He clung on for several seconds, then bounced down the corridor like a Shabti doll hurled from the tomb doorway.

Within the tomb, Ma.s.sud struggled onwards. He was leaning into the wind, his loose clothing blown back against his body as he inched forwards. As he reached the sarcophagus, he lost his footing and crashed to the floor.

His knee crunched on the flagstones and he screamed in pain. But he dragged himself onwards. So close now, so close.

In front of him he could see the relics placed on low shelves round the head of the casket. He could see the canopic jar, its stopper carved in the shape of the head of Anubis the jackal. The G.o.d's ceramic eyes watched his progress unblinking. Ma.s.sud's hand reached out towards the jar, and the red glow from the pa.s.sageway outside seemed to grow stronger even as the screams of his friends died away.

With a final effort, Ma.s.sud hurled himself forward. His fingertips connected with the stopper, and the jar tottered for a long second. The wind dropped, as if holding its breath with Ma.s.sud, while the jar rolled on its base and rocked back again. It teetered of the rim, then slipped from the low shelf into s.p.a.ce.

The wind returned, stronger than ever. Ma.s.sud was swept against the wall of the tomb, the back of his head smashing against the carved stone and splitting open like a rotten egg.

The last thing Ma.s.sud saw before he died was the canopic jar rolling towards him across the floor of the tomb. It was still intact, but a dark crack ran the length of it. Perhaps it was enough, enough for him to pa.s.s through the Hall of the Two Truths and for the G.o.ddess to welcome him to the afterlife.