by C. E. Murphy
He looked up as he asked the question, watching Ragar's reaction. It was a calculated gambit, one that paid off. Ragar paled, eyes widening as he opened his mouth, on the verge of asking how Lorhen had learned of it. Within a fraction of a second he regained control over his expression, shock panning away to mild perplexity. “What room? The temple is set into the bedrock.”
"So Ghean said." Lorhen stood, coming around the table the duo shared to lean on it, studying Ragar from above. "It must have been difficult to carve out, then."
The mortal scholar returned Lorhen’s gaze with convincing confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lorhen.”
Lorhen sighed, straightening away from the table to pace the room with long, idle steps. "You’re a very good liar, Ragar, but I’m an even better truth-reader. My guess is that there’s a tunnel, probably leading from the Crow's House, probably very deep in the stone, that leads directly to the room. A maze would be more clever, but it would also be a great deal more work, and most people who don't keep slaves tend to be a little more straightforward when it comes to hard labor. Of course, I'm assuming the histories haven't been adapted, and that Atlantis was never a civilization built on the backs of slaves."
"We are the favored of the gods," Ragar said stiffly. "We have no need to enslave other races."
"Ah." Lorhen nodded. "So the tunnel was dug by Atlanteans."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Ragar repeated, only narrowly keeping from snapping the words out.
"The stone is soft enough to carve," Lorhen continued thoughtfully. "The small altar in the temple has only the shallow blood bowl, but the larger one outside seems to have a room for pooling blood beneath it. I presume it drains into the waste crevasses that Ghean told me about. How long do you think it would break into the other room, if I went into the blood room and started chiseling my way toward the temple?" He reached the far side of the room and began circling back the other way, watching Ragar. "The tunnel probably leads from the Crow," he repeated, "from a room hidden underground itself; the architects of Atlantis are too astute to fail to notice an extra wall or wing on the outside of the house that wasn't available from the inside."
Ragar frowned. Lorhen smiled in response, ticking off his suppositions on his fingers as he continued. "It must have been built at very nearly the same time Atlantis was, I'd think. The room constructed, the temple built on top of it, the tunnel dug and the Book of Atlantis stashed there, safe from prying eyes. Perhaps not even the head of the House knew where it went, so when someone got around to asking, maybe generations later, it really had disappeared. Only a handful of scholars still knew where it was."
Ragar's frown grew deeper. "Where did you come up with these ideas?"
"The priests are going to be very unhappy when I go into their blood room and start chopping a hole under their temple,” Lorhen said, almost enjoying himself. “I think Ertros might help me. He seemed enthusiastic about the prospect."
Ragar's eyebrows shot up. "Ertros told you about th—” He broke off, eyes closing at his self-betrayal. "Ertros told you there was a room under the temple?" he asked, much more mildly.
"Ertros told me a children's story about a room under the temple. You just confirmed it. How much of it did I have right?"
Ragar sighed. "I'm going to have to invite that boy into the Bull’s House," he muttered. "He's too clever by half."
"He really was talking about chopping a hole in the temple floor," Lorhen warned. "I saw him the other night when I was leaving the temple and the thought struck him to try it in the middle of the night when no priests were around."
"He tried two years ago," Ragar said dryly. "At midday. If he weren't a commoner he'd have found the tunnel by the time he was nine. It's harder to get into the House grounds if you're not a member of one of the Houses."
Lorhen smiled. "Ghean said it was impossible to hide something from thirty generations of children. I realized she was right. Some of the more enterprising children had to have found the tunnel's entrance. Were you one of them?"
Ragar's expression was caught between defeat and the remains of a childhood pride. "I was," he allowed. "There are a few in every generation who do. They're almost all brought into the circle who know and protect the truth, and they virtually all become scholars."
Lorhen's eyes narrowed. "Almost all? What about the ones who aren't?"
"There are always one or two who aren't suited for the task of protecting the Book. Gods, man," Ragar said, staring at the dark look clouding Lorhen's face. "What do you think we do, drown them? They're given a drink that makes them susceptible to believing what they're told. We give them a story about a dead-end tunnel outside the city, and encourage them not to talk about it. They rarely do."
Lorhen relaxed a bit, nodding. "What about the ones who do?"
Ragar shrugged. "There's a dead-end tunnel outside the city." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "How prosaic, hm? It's maintained so it won't be dangerous. They lose interest."
Lorhen brushed the explanation aside, satisfied that the refined Atlantean culture wasn't hiding a barbaric underside. "I want to see the Book, Ragar."
The other man shook his head almost violently. "No one outside of Atlantis has ever read it. They would never let you near it."
"I'm not interested in what 'they' would do. Apprentice me, adopt me into your House; I don't care." The germ of an idea finally focused in Lorhen's mind, the real reason the hidden book was of such interest to him: if it really had the secrets of immortality in its pages, then perhaps the Timeless themselves were explained. Minyah had claimed Atlantis was older than Lorhen; maybe somewhere in the island city’s past, those who had held the power to create the artifacts had also crossed paths with the first of the Timeless. Lorhen looked up, eyes intent on Ragar. "Ragar, please. This is very important to me, for reasons I can't explain."
Ragar studied Lorhen shrewdly. "Can't, or won't?" Dismissing the question as he asked it, he added, "It was written in the earliest days of Atlantis, Lorhen. Even I find the language difficult at times, and I've spent my entire life studying it. You wouldn't be able to read it."
Lorhen lowered his eyes, then looked up. "I’ll be able to read it," he said with soft confidence. "Just get me to it."
Ragar took on the almost quivering stillness of an animal being hunted. He said nothing, completely absorbed by his examination of Lorhen, as if another moment's study would produce a flash of insight that would explain him. Seconds stretched into a full minute before he broke the pose. "If I do this for you," he said slowly, "you will tell me what it is that you're hiding."
"I'd risk my life by doing that, Ragar."
"I risk mine by smuggling you in to see the Book!" Ragar snapped. "Is it a bargain, Lorhen?"
Lorhen fell silent, once more regarding his companion. In time he inclined his head. "It is a bargain, Ragar. The Book, and then my story. How do we do this?"
As it turned out, the entrance beneath the Crow's House garden was left unguarded, simply to avoid broadcasting the fact there was something worthy of guarding. A significant portion of the afternoon was spent waiting for the head of the household to make his daily journey down into the city. When finally he did, Lorhen and Ragar took the hill up to the House and requested an audience with its lord. His wife apologetically explained his absence, and escorted them out through the garden, glad of the chance to show off the wild flower arrangements. Ragar propped the garden’s outermost door open while Lorhen admired the foliage, and they left with promises to visit again soon.
No doubt the mistress of the House didn’t expect them to return within the hour, slipping in through the propped-open outer door. Lorhen took the rock away, letting the door close, and followed Ragar through twisting paths to a dead end wall. Ragar pushed aside a fall of branches to reveal a divot in the wall that could easily have been no more than a flaw in the stone, and with swift confidence employed lock-picking tools that, after a moment’s work, c
aused the dead-end wall to sigh as it popped open. Ragar put his shoulder against it, shoving lightly, and it swung inward, leaving Lorhen studying the width of the walls all around with some curiosity.
"Come on," Ragar hissed, and disappeared down a latter built into the wall, barely two feet from the door.
Lorhen followed, swinging the door shut again with a faint grating of stone. "I hope that opens again from down here."
"It does," Ragar said. "There's even a remarkably clever device which uses mirrors and allows you to check the surrounding area to be certain no one is there when you come out again."
"Good idea," Lorhen said. "Was it installed before or after someone got caught?"
Ragar struck up a light, lifting it to show off a broad grin. "After. They say there were rather more recruits than usual that year. Someone came out in the middle of a birthday party."
Lorhen laughed. "Poor planning, that." He glanced around. The room they stood in was barely large enough to deserve the name, bleeding into the tunnel only a few feet away. "Tell me, where does a scholar learn the knack of lock-picking?"
Ragar cleared his throat, and turned down the tunnel. Lorhen ducked after him, realizing in dismay that the only reason he'd had head room was to permit the ladder that reached back up to the garden. He rubbed his neck in anticipation of stiff muscles as Ragar said, "There are half a dozen rooms in the library that you can't get into unless you employ somewhat circumspect methods. I learned how to pick locks when I was about twelve." He was silent a while, concentrating on the steep downward slope before the ground leveled out and he followed a sharp twist in the stone. "It's come in surprisingly handy over my life, actually. Not in the least for sneaking in the Crow's back door. Be glad I can. It's an easier way to access the Book than trying to ask permission."
"Are we likely to be caught?"
Ragar shook his head, following another bend. "No. The Book is left alone most of the time. It's fragile. We copy parts we want to study and use the copies down in the room."
"Why not copy the whole thing?"
"Half of it is unintelligible. Besides, the gods told us it needed to be protected. Making copies to distribute isn't a good way to protect something."
"Unless disaster should happen to strike and you should lose the original," Lorhen said.
Ragar stopped abruptly and turned around to stare at him. "Must you point out glaring follies in our logic?"
"Sorry."
Ragar snorted and turned again, following yet another sharp curve.
"This was dug this way on purpose?" Lorhen asked.
"Oh no," Ragar said, lifting the light close to the wall, allowing a reflection. "The first section, the sharp downhill, had been carved out when someone broke through to a chute in the stone. They followed it to its end, or as close to it as they could. It comes out under water, not far from the harbor. After enough surveying, they determined it passed within meters of the temple." He gestured with the litter lantern, making light bounce off the walls. "See how smooth the walls are? My teacher thought there had been a river through here once. If you follow it the other way, it comes out in a deep basin outside the city."
"Where the blocked-off tunnel is?" Lorhen guessed.
"Indeed." Ragar continued down the passageway. "There's more than fifty feet of solid packed rock between that blockaded end and open tunnel." He swung the lantern forward, indicating the far end of the tunnel. "They didn't want to risk water damage to the Book, so the other end has also been blocked off. It's one of the things initiates do, re-packing and re-filling the stone that's worn or shaken down. Every time there's a major earthquake, someone goes tearing down to check on it. So far, though, nothing has budged the stones we've set in."
"Earthquakes?" Lorhen asked. "Are there a lot of those?"
Ragar nodded, unconcerned. "I'm surprised you haven't felt one. There's usually one or two every moon that are strong enough to feel, but nothing damaging. You get used to it. We don't think much of them."
Lorhen laughed. "I'll try to adopt that cavalier attitude, Ragar. It may take some time."
"There are no earthquakes where you come from?"
Good question. "No, though I've felt them a few times in my travels. Disconcerting, to have the earth shift under your feet."
Ragar laughed, about to respond, but pulled up as the men rounded yet another corner and faced a dead end. Lorhen frowned at it curiously. "Either that's a door or your initiates have been a little too thorough."
"The former." Ragar chuckled, lowering the lantern to inspect a small crevasse in the stone. Two faint clicks sounded as he poked his finger into the niche. The wall swung back silently. "The Book," Ragar said dryly, and gestured Lorhen into the room.
"You first. I insist." Though Lorhen kept his tone light, Ragar glanced at him sharply before stepping through the doorway into the room beneath the temple.
It was only slightly smaller than the temple itself. To Lorhen's relief, it was also carved a smidge higher than the tunnel had been. He straightened, rubbing his neck as he looked around. The top of his head barely missed the ceiling; had his hair had been cut short, the ceiling would have bent it.
Ragar circled the room, lighting torches spaced evenly every few feet. A longish table dominated the room, half a dozen chairs scattered around it. The door directly behind Lorhen appeared to be the only exit or entrance. Lorhen squinted at the walls as he followed Ragar around. "You said the initiates worked to fill the tunnel from the other side. I don't see another door."
"You wouldn't see that one if it were closed behind you," Ragar said, completing his circuit. "But there's only the one door into this room. This is all hand carved. We left the river chute a few minutes ago. The other door you're looking for was built between the natural tunnel and the one we created, back where we turned the last time. It's beyond there that they add to the blockade."
"Ah." Lorhen came to a stop in front of the door again, beside Ragar. "I don't mean to be difficult," he said after a moment, "but there are no books in here."
Ragar crossed the room again, locating a chisel in the stone, completely indistinguishable from any other to Lorhen's eyes. The same double-click the door had made sounded, and a wide slab of rock detached itself from the surrounding stone. The scholar lifted another slab out from within it, and set the second on the table, pressing his fingertips against seven different points, in rapid succession. A hairline crack appeared in the box, and he slid the two halves apart.
"Minyah has a box like that," Lorhen said with fascination. "How do they do that?"
"I have no idea. I don't make them." With delicate precision, Ragar lifted a tome from the black stone box. The outside covers were a warm dark wood filled with thin sheets of paper held in place by long leather thongs. The cover was carved with the circle that symbolized the Houses of Atlantis, studs rising from the depressed wood. Within was the triangular star pattern, overlaid with an artist’s rendering of a sharp-beaked crow, its wings spread: the symbol of that House. Excluding the covers, the book was nearly five inches thick, by far the largest volume of any sort Lorhen had ever seen. "Gods of heaven and earth," he murmured, reaching a tentative hand toward the book. "It's beautiful."
Ragar set it on the table, holding it in place by way of his fingertips, barely touching the wooden cover. "If you damage it," he said levelly, and Lorhen looked up.
"I won't," he said swiftly, before Ragar had time to complete the threat. "I would sooner die." While the statement was wildly untrue, it soothed Ragar, who lifted his hands to nudge the volume toward Lorhen.
"I would suggest you read and absorb quickly. In time, you may be accepted into the circle of protectorates, but until then, this will be your sole opportunity to study it."
Lorhen was already pulling a chair up, a long leg stretched out to hook the nearest and drag it across the floor. Judging it close enough without looking, he sat down on the very edge, nearly sliding off. Impatiently, he hitched it forward, and carefull
y drew the book across the table to open it.
Neat handwriting lettered across the page, ancestor to the texts he had already studied. For a moment Lorhen simply examined the scripting, then looked at Ragar. "Atlantis developed a written language like this originally? Not pictography first?"
Ragar settled down in another chair, pulling out a bundle of papers from a bag he'd carried down with him. "Our gods gave us our written language. It's evolved since then, but that's the oldest example we have. When they gave us the Book, they gave us writing. It's over a thousand years old."
Lorhen looked down at the book, hardly breathing. "More than a thousand years?" he asked, all too aware that his wonder would be interpreted as awe of being in the presence of something of such great age. It was partly true, but the hope that the Timeless might be explained in the thin pages struck a deeper chord in him.
"It tells its own history," Ragar said. "Read."
They tell us we are gods, the text began, and it is somehow easier to not argue.
They tell us we are gods. We are not; we are only men and women. Our godhood lies in an immortality we didn't ask for, and in the knowledge gained over years of study.
My name is Lonan. I no longer remember how long I have been alive. The thirteenth generation of Atlantis is growing up around me now, and my family and I have been on this island thousands of years. We came here to avoid the war that is the way of life beyond Atlantis. Our kind, we Timeless, fight compulsively, surviving one day to the next by killing our brothers. We 'gods', my brothers and sisters and I, turned our back on that path a long time ago, to use our immortality to better ends. We came to Atlantis, and we have studied here for uncounted centuries, learning to harness the power within us, to shape it and to imbue objects with its magic. Even of those of us who have retreated here, only a few can manipulate the Blending in this way; there is something in those few, a creativity or a spark of some kind, that runs deeper than it does in the rest of us.
