by C. E. Murphy
"Do you want that?" Minyah returned to stand before him, her eyes calculating and thoughtful.
Lorhen spread his hands. "I really don’t care about ruling the world, or being a god. All I want, all I’ve ever wanted, is to live another day.” A faint smile creased his mouth. “Just like anyone else. I just want to live.”
I just want to live. The words, that simple inherent truth of his being, echoed in his mind now, late at night and days after he and Minyah had experimented with the Hunter’s cloak. Moonlight's hard shadows mixed with the softer, flickering edges of candlelight shadows as Lorhen sat with his head dropped, long fingers pressed against his temples and forehead. The papers spread over the table in front of him were written in Atlantean, recognizable but painfully archaic. He hadn't moved in four hours, other than turning pages and sipping coffee.
Lorhen rubbed his eyes again, before pushing his stool away from the desk so he could stand. The Hunter’s cloak was painfully tempting. More than once he'd found himself retracing the route to the storage room, only to deliberately walk away when he'd realized his goal. Such a device would encourage complacency, reliance on an outside resource, and that could be—would be—his undoing. Survival was a solitary pursuit.
With a quiet sigh, Lorhen reassembled the papers he'd been going through. After nearly two days of meticulous research, he was certain that the histories would not provide him with the details of how to create the artifacts, nor with the location of the mythical Book of Atlantis. Still, he would finish reading them in the morning.
Barefooted, he padded into the bedroom, watching Ghean sleep for a few moments. Relaxed in the dim moonlight, her hair braided and dripping over the edge of the bed, she looked very young, though by most mortal standards she was more than middle-aged. With a smile, he slipped out again, hesitating briefly in the main room before blowing out candles, picking up his blades, and making his way down toward the city.
The streets were deserted, taverns and markets all closed. Lorhen glanced at the moon and the position of the stars, judging it to be well past midnight, closer to the new dawn than last night's dusk. The city glowed, the white stone reflecting the moonlight with an eerie, unreal edge, as if lit from within. The shadows were blued, full darkness unwilling to encroach on the city's streets. It lent an aura of peace to the sleeping town, lulling Lorhen's walk into a slow and leisurely pace.
He had almost reached the temple at the city center before he realized it was his destination. He paused at the door, considering the blade he still carried, sheathed, in his hand. He knew of no mortal enemies on the island, and among the other compulsions of his kind was the aversion to fighting on consecrated ground: even the idea made his hands itch and cramp, as if he'd be forced to drop his weapons if he tried. Still, Atlantis had no tenets requiring temple-goers to abandon their weapons outside the sanctuary, and after a moment's debate, Lorhen stepped inside, sword still in hand.
The weeks in Atlantis had not afforded him more than a few minutes' visit in the temple. It had been enough to register fine architecture and artwork, but little else. Now, he thought, the wait had been worthwhile. The circular building was domed, the roof set upon wide pillars at even intervals. Head tilted back to study them, Lorhen walked further into the temple, coming to the center of the room and placing fingertips on the altar that dominated the building.
The pillars were carved, each in its own distinct style, as if each of the thirteen had been commissioned by a different artist. The Houses of Atlantis were represented there, beasts and creatures from the stars rendered in white marble to hold up the dome of the sky. Some were stunningly lifelike, the effect added to by the shadows cast by the moon's bright light. Lorhen turned to find the Hunter, his arms lifted to support his section of the ceiling. With a self-mocking smile, Lorhen bowed to the sculpture, amused at the real respect he felt. Though his own gods, if he'd had any, were long dead, there was still a small degree of comfortable familiarity in acknowledging the gods of others.
Scattered cushions were the only seats in the temple. Atlantis' religion was more one of quiet contemplation than gathered masses, though the central altar saw monthly sacrifices from each House, as its constellation grew dominant. Faint, discolored traces of blood stained the stone, rendered innocent by the lighting.
Lorhen withdrew from the altar, fingers sliding off smooth, worn stone, and knelt on a nearby cushion, sword held loosely across his thighs as his eyes slowly drifted shut. Time slipped away, the meditative silence of the temple helping to loosen the restraints of memory.
His arrogant claim came back to him: I am the oldest living Timeless. The oldest he knew about, at least, though he couldn’t imagine he was the first. Surely he would remember being that old, somehow.
Memories prompted by centuries of journal-keeping, remembered because they had been written down, surfaced. Heads he'd taken, ages of the Timeless who had died, whose power had Blended with his. None of them had been older than he. But what about the first one? With a heavy breath, Lorhen let all conscious thought slip away from him, giving himself up to the flickers of memory.
The first remembered heartstrike, the first Blending. The electric thrill still jolted his fingertips, raising hairs on his arms. Power was left, but the man whose head he'd taken was gone, memories of his life swept away on time's river as much as any mortal life might be lost. For an instant, the thick features came into focus: wide nose, heavy cheekbones and wild, wild hair, frantic eyes visible in flashes under it. Lorhen snatched at the image, trying to follow it to more knowledge, only to watch is dissolve. Hunger and fear, rage and despair, replaced it, the sensations remembered more in bone and muscle than in mind.
With thoughtless determination, Lorhen pursued even those shreds of memory, wading through the grey blur of time. On one level, he noticed the prickle at the back of his neck as he sat in the temple, noted the arrival of another Timeless. Beyond the awareness, he ignored the physical, falling deeper into memory in search of answers.
Nothing came forward. No faces, no teachers, nothing of the Timeless who had come before him. Briefly, the face of an old man, toothless with age and utterly bald, filled Lorhen's mind. With it came a dozen other glimpses of faces, men and women and children whose presence spoke faintly of family to the ancient Timeless. As quickly as they'd come, they were gone, leaving Lorhen with a small smile playing at his mouth. He spoke without intending to, voice quiet in the stone temple, and only truly heard the last word: Nolan.
Karem's voice broke him out of his reverie entirely. "What did you say?"
Lorhen opened his eyes to regard the man crouched on a cushion some feet away. The words were too awkward in his mouth, already faded in his mind; he couldn’t form them again, and said, “It meant…'your memory is mine', roughly. It's something you say to someone who is dying or leaving, so they'll know they won't be forgotten."
"Who is Nolan, then?"
"He was…" Lorhen freed one of his hands from around the sword, lifting it to pinch the bridge of his nose. "A friend," he said finally. "A mortal."
"I didn't recognize the language."
Lorhen dropped his hand to look across the room again. "Neither did I," he said, with no particular humor. "What are you doing here?"
"I might ask you the same thing."
"I was meditating," Lorhen said dryly, "until you interrupted me."
"With a sword on your lap?"
Lorhen shrugged, unfolding himself from the cushion. "We live and die by the sword. Why not pray by it, too? You ask a lot of questions, Karem."
Karem smiled easily. "It's the best way to learn. Have you learned anything else about the immortality artifacts?"
"No." Half a dozen explanations and addendums leapt to mind, and Lorhen closed his mouth firmly on them. No need to let Karem know he'd actually been researching the artifacts. Better to let him think he'd dismissed the stories entirely.
Karem remained where he was, crouched over the cushion. "Have you looke
d?"
Lorhen showed half a smile, shaking his head. "No, again, I'm afraid. Maybe in twenty years when they're used to me."
"I want it now."
"Why?" Lorhen paused at the door, looking at the other Timeless. "Is someone dying, or are you anticipating a challenge you can't win without a crutch?"
Curious, Karem looked up. "Do you think they'd work for us?"
Lorhen shook his head. "Our immortality doesn't work that way. What if it turned out to be catastrophic?" There had been no consequence for trying to stab himself, but he hadn't been engaged in battle with another Timeless. "I wonder if we would be repulsed by trying to use them in battle, like we are if we consider fighting on sacred ground."
Karem glanced around the temple. "What happens if push through that repulsion, O Oldest Among Us? We’re compelled to fight, too, but we don’t suffer for not fighting."
Lorhen spread his hand. "I don't know. I've never tried. Good night, Karem." He stepped through the temple doors, letting them swing shut behind him, and walked until cresting a hill would take the temple out of his sight. There, he turned and looked back down the broad avenue he’d followed, gazing at the now-distant temple. He wondered, briefly, who Nolan had been; who he had been, to promise the dying mortal that he would be remembered. But whoever they had been were both lost to time. Lorhen shrugged the memories away, leaving the questions behind in the sanctuary of the Atlantean temple.
"What were you doing in the temple?"
Lorhen glanced down a side street, eyebrows elevated, to see Ghean's young friend, Ertros leaning against a wall. "What are you doing up this early?" he asked in return, then smiled. "Praying, I suppose. Something like it. Good morning, Ertros."
Ertros folded his arms across his chest, suspiciously, and squinted up at Lorhen. "Good morning," he said, without a great deal of courtesy. "My mother runs a tavern. I always start the fire just before dawn so the cooking can get done. Atlanteans," he accused, "don't pray in the middle of the night."
Lorhen lifted his eyebrows, crossing to lean against the alley wall opposite Ertros. "I'm not Atlantean," he pointed out. "Too tall and too pale, I think is what you said? Your mother must appreciate your help a great deal."
"So how come you're here, if you don't belong here?" the boy asked resentfully. "Coming from the outlands to marry Ghean. She should marry an Atlantean."
Lorhen slid down against the wall to make himself smaller than the boy. "I met her in Egypt," he said. "She went there to study how they were building the pyramids, and to see the Anapa monument."
Ertros nodded impatiently. "I know. I didn't want her to go away." He scowled at Lorhen. "What were you doing in Egypt?"
"Studying their language and the stories they have written down. I've been studying stories a long time. Ghean told me that you worked in the library yourself."
Ertros straightened, clearly proud of himself. "They don't let most kids my age work there because they're not careful enough. I'm real careful."
Lorhen smiled. "You must be. Even I get nervous going through the old manuscripts. I suppose if you've been around them your whole life you're more confident with them."
The boy thawed visibly, almost smiling with pride. "If I keep doing well I'll be able to study the very oldest Atlantean histories when I'm grown up. I might even join a House, if I can." He glared at Lorhen suddenly. "I was gonna marry Ghean."
Lorhen half smiled. "She's almost eleven years older than you are, Ertros. You’ll find someone closer to your own age, maybe someone who shares your love of history, too.”
Ertros scowled again. "Maybe. That might be all right. Then I could tell our kids about Atlantis' history."
Lorhen grinned, nodding. "You've got a head start on Ghean and me. Ghean's studied architecture, not history, and me—well, I'm a newcomer to the island. I'm trying to find the oldest histories of Atlantis to read them now, but maybe outlanders don't get to read them. I can't find the very oldest. Y—"
"What," Ertros asked curiously, "Like the Book of Atlantis?"
Lorhen broke off, blinking in surprise. "I've heard of that," he admitted, "but it doesn't seem to exist."
"I haven't seen it either," Ertros said, "but the kids say it's under the temple." He grinned. "We always look for it in the summer. A couple years ago I tried chopping a hole in the temple floor. I've never seen the priests so angry."
Lorhen laughed. "I imagine." He glanced back up the street toward the temple, then at the horizon, greying with dawn. "Let me know if you ever find it," he said wryly. "Right now you'd better go start the hearth in your mother's tavern."
Ertros looked toward the horizon as well, nodded, then grinned again. "Maybe I should try chopping another hole in the middle of the night."
"The priests," Lorhen warned, "will be very angry."
Ertros grinned and headed down the street. "Not if they don't catch me!"
Lorhen laughed, stepping into the main street, looking back at the temple as the moonlight faded from it to leave it bleached colorless in the dull morning light, and wondering if there was really a room beneath it. Shaking his head, he turned away and made his way back up to the Hunter’s House. Ghean sat up in bed, blinking at him through strands of hair that had escaped their containing braid. "Where have you been?"
"Setting old ghosts to rest," Lorhen murmured. "Or trying, at least. I didn't mean to wake you."
Ghean's smile was rueful. "I haven't been sleeping well. I wake up and wonder if it's the morning of the ceremony yet."
He chuckled. "Not for a few days."
Ghean pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. "Mother says you've been studying about the House artifacts." Lorhen nodded and Ghean's expression turned wistful. "Do you suppose they might work? That I could live forever with you?"
A pang of guilt went through Lorhen. "You'll inherit the Hunter’s cloak when your mother dies, Ghean. If it works, you'll find out then."
"I'll be old when she dies, gods keep her. I want to be young forever, like you are. I'm the last of my House, Lorhen, and we won't ever have children. I don't want my House to die out."
At a loss for words, Lorhen sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping his arm around Ghean's shoulders to pull her close to him. "Marry a mortal, then," he said softly. "There's no reason you can't have children, Ghean. That inability is mine." At least until her first death, if it happened. There was no kindness in being able to bear or sire children, when happenstance might mean living centuries beyond them.
"Is it so easy for you?" she asked hoarsely. "To suggest I leave you, that I give up our life together? Our future, however brief it may seem, to you?"
"No." Lorhen bent his head over hers. "No, it's not. I'm a selfish old man, Ghean, and I want to marry you. But there are things I can't give you, and a child is one of them. There are people for whom that is enough, more than enough, to break a marriage contract, and I'm not so selfish as to keep you for myself if bearing a child is one of your heart's true desires. As for the other…" He sighed and spoke into her hair. "The artifacts seem to work. I'm looking for the Crow’s artifact. It's supposed to be a book, maybe one that explains how to make the other talismans. It was apparently lost a long time ago." He felt, more than heard, the little sigh of relief that indicated she believed he was not abandoning her to old age. Guilt filtered through him again, and he fell silent, unwilling to betray her secret to her. Muffled against him, she spoke, and he leaned back to hear her better.
"It's supposed to be under the temple," she said. "At least, that's where we always looked for it when we were little. We would stage great hunts every year. There's nothing under there, though, no way to get under it. So we would usually get chased off." She laughed quietly. "The older children tell the younger ones, and it goes down through the years. Nobody's ever found anything under it, though. The temple's the oldest building in Atlantis, and the floor is solid stone."
"That's what Ertros said, too. Why didn't any of the scholars t
ell me that?"
"Because it's a children's story, I suppose. I'm sure that some of them went looking once they reached adulthood and didn't have to hide from the priests anymore. There's nothing there. Everyone would know, if there were."
"Would they?" Lorhen asked. "If someone found the Book of Atlantis under the temple, would they tell everyone? Or anyone? It's supposed to be the city's greatest treasure. Why risk it?"
Ghean's voice became offended. "It is the greatest treasure. Atlanteans aren't brigands or thieves. It would be safe."
"Maybe. But more likely someone would get drunk and mention it to an outsider, and the island would be overrun by armies of men searching for the gift of immortality."
"The gods would protect us," Ghean said confidently. "They have always protected us from outlanders. At any rate, there's no room under the temple. Nobody can hide something so well that thirty generations of children couldn't find it."
Lorhen laughed. "All right. You have a point there."
Ghean looked out the window, considering the rose-colored sky, and then glanced sidelong at Lorhen. "I don't suppose my husband could be persuaded to come to bed for a few hours. I know I'm not as stimulating as intellectual pursuits, but I do try. "
Lorhen struggled to keep his voice solemn. "I could use a few hours' sleep," he agreed, and laughed aloud when Ghean caught him in the face with a pillow.
18
Even mortals could go a night without sleep. The Timeless could manage for days, even weeks, without real rest; certainly a single sleepless night wasn’t enough to keep Lorhen from being able to coax Ragar into confessing all he knew about the room beneath the temple. He started by plying the other scholar with coffee, not to sharpen his wits but to lull him into complacency, then, as Ragar argued some fine point of history, Lorhen, lazily, said, “How do you get into the room beneath the temple?”
