Atlantis Fallen (The Heartstrike Chronicles Book 1)

by C. E. Murphy

  Lorhen staggered out of his chair toward the second bedroom, hands pressed over his ears. "I'm not hearing this. I'm actually not hearing this. Good night, you two…" Six thousand years, and he couldn't think of a decent rejoinder to end the sentence on. More amused than disgusted, he retreated into the second room, and pretended he couldn't hear the other two laughing into the early morning hours.

  25

  We're falling, the frightened one whispered.

  Ghean took a deliberately deep breath, leaning her head against the window and looking down six miles to the featureless ocean below. A yawn cracked her jaw, and she passed a hand over her eyes, trying to rub away weariness. She'd learned, over the last decades, to sleep in cars and trains, allowing the gentle motion to lull her into rest, despite the speed at which they traveled. Planes were a different matter. Falling, the frightened one whimpered again. The sky can't hold us up. We're falling.

  We are not falling, she thought impatiently, but shivered anyway. Traveling so far above the earth's surface, at a nearly unfathomable rate, still seemed unnatural. The roar of the jet engines sounded, even after almost a century, like the sheering scream of stone crashing apart as Atlantis fell.

  The sound of the world ending, the patient one said. It is not ending. We're safe.

  I know, she told it.

  Falling, the frightened one repeated, softly. The plane bumped into an air pocket, and Ghean stiffened, fingers clenched around the arm rests. You see! screamed the frightened one, and Ghean set her jaw, denying the voice.

  At least the seat next to her was empty. Too many concerned colleagues had asked after her welfare in the past, their concern distracting Ghean from squelching the panicked little voice in her mind. After several flights, she simply made the habit of purchasing not only her own seat, but the one next to her, assuring privacy in her personal terror. She'd learned to meet extended turbulence with a calm exterior. The war with the frightened voice actually made it easier. The struggle to keep from shouting its fears aloud excluded the outside world almost enough to ignore bumps and rattles entirely.

  Airplanes are an astonishing invention, the patient one insisted. It takes only hours to fly from Chicago to Greece. Such a journey would have been undertaken only with great care and nerve, from Atlantis, and would have taken many, many months.

  I appreciate that, Ghean grated silently, on an intellectual level. They used to make the trip, to South America, to get the beans for chocolate.

  Yes, the patient one said smugly. They would have embraced flight, the scholars and scientists of Atlantis. So should we.

  "I'm on the plane, aren't I?" she growled, and wished for a book. Though she had shed the habit of mentally translating written work into Atlantean in the early thirties, she was still a slow reader. Fiction held little interest for her, and scientific texts were frequently written in a prose too uninspiring to take her mind off the miles of air beneath the airplane. On the rare occasions that a technical piece of literature captured her attention, she would devour the article or book in her slow, intensive way, and then read every other piece by the author she could locate. These infrequent happenings made air travel almost pleasant: it was the only time she could spend uninterrupted hours deeply involved in reading.

  Mostly, though, Ghean spent entire flights with her forehead pressed against the window, waiting in dread for the plane to fall out of the sky. That she was guaranteed survival from even the most horrific wreck—barring the unlikely event that shrapnel would separate her head from her shoulders—did not reassure her in any way. It was the falling that frightened her, the uncontrollable plunge to the earth. There seemed so little difference between free fall in the air and the weightlessness of the temple, and she feared it all the more for its familiarity? Idle fingers twisted her ring around on her thumb. When she noticed the nervous movement, Ghean stopped it deliberately, placing her hands neatly in her lap. The bright, hard light of the tiny overhead lightbulb leeched their color, rendering them pasty. The scars on her fingertips were more visible, the ruined pads bouncing a different quality of light back at her. Ghean lifted one hand, propping her elbow on the armrest, and stared at her fingers, trying to remember how they had looked before her captivity.

  "What happened?" Michelle's soft voice, behind her, made Ghean flinch violently and reach for the blade she had tucked away, wrapped in her coat, in the storage compartment above her seat. "To your fingers," Michelle added, coming around the seats to take the one next to Ghean. "I always wanted to ask, but it seemed terribly invasive."

  Ghean closed her hands into loose fists, hiding the scars. "A chainsaw. I tried picking one up by the blade when I was very small, and somehow the power switch got knocked on. It shredded my fingers."

  "My God," Michelle said. "You're lucky your hands weren't cut to pieces entirely."

  "So I've been told," Ghean agreed. "Why are you awake?"

  "Guilty conscience." Michelle smiled, then shook her head. "I woke up a while ago, and just called back to the university. Apparently we've had a windfall."

  Ghean's eyebrows lifted a little. "We won the lottery?"

  Michelle laughed. "Very nearly. Evidently someone at the lecture last night was quite taken with the topic. A gentleman called in at the University this morning with a cashier's check for five million dollars, for the Atlantis excavation fund."

  Ghean's eyebrows went higher. "How extraordinarily generous. And what did he want in return?"

  "So young, yet so cynical. He wanted to join us, along with a friend of his, on the explorations. Apparently one is a historical scholar of some repute, and the other—the donor, in fact—owns an antique shop."

  Ghean's eyebrows lowered, something of a respectful smile playing around her mouth. It was a good tactic, not one she'd expected. "Did these distinguished gentlemen have names?"

  "The donor is a fellow called Cathal Devane. Apparently he's more along for the ride; it's his friend who's chomping at the bit for the opportunity to see Atlantis. He may imagine there's a paper or a book in it somewhere, though I'll be damned if I'm giving away those rights to the first fellow who comes along. You'll be writing one first, and if I'm lucky, I'll be second."

  Ghean pursed her lips, lifting a hand to tap her thumb against her mouth as she searched for the name Lorhen had asked her to call him. "Logan," she said after a moment. "Logan Adams, is he your scholar?"

  "Good Lord," Michelle's eyebrows sailed up from behind her glasses. "You know him?"

  "I have known Logan," Ghean said, rolling the words in her mouth with a certain delight, "a very long time."

  "Well!" Michelle sat back, pleased. "The University's slavering over the check, of course, but they wanted to check in with us before actually accepting it." She paused, thoughtful. "I imagine they'd tell us to go straight to hell if we declined, but since Dr. Adams' an old friend of yours, I'll let them know it won't be a problem at all for them to accompany us."

  "Just Adams," Ghean interjected. "The research sub is tiny enough, and Devane's a big man."

  Michelle looked at her, startled. "Mr. Devane is the man with the money, Mary."

  "Logan," Ghean said firmly, "is the one who wants this. Just him, or neither of them go. Cathal will accept it."

  "You know him, too?" Michelle asked in surprise. Ghean smiled faintly.

  "I met him last night, in fact. Logan introduced me. Logan was the friend I saw in the audience after the lecture. He…studies myths." Certainly that had been Lorhen's task in the Keepers. Ghean grinned at the irony and stretched her toes out under the seat in front of her. "I'm sure he'll make a fascinating addition to our team. His knowledge of the ancient world is unparalleled."

  "Really," Michelle said with interest. "I don't think I've ever heard of him."

  "Oh, he's very withdrawn," Ghean said blithely. "I don't know if he's taught anywhere except in private institutions, and I don't think he's published anything in years, if ever. He's the sort of person who likes knowledge for
its own sake, although he adores lecturing people." She narrowed her eyes at the seat back in front of her, idly following the folds in the leather as she considered her options.

  We may as well paint him impossibly bright, the patient one advised. Our own knowledge can only be pressed so far under the guise of inspiration. If we can use Lorhen to crack the secrets of Atlantis, so much the better.

  We'll be caught, the frightened one whispered dismally.

  Ghean ignored the second voice. "I would hazard a guess that he knows more about the Atlantis legends and possibilities than anyone else on the planet."

  "Excepting you," Michelle half teased.

  Ghean shot a smile at the other woman. "Except me. Really, though. His knowledge on the ancient world is extraordinary. I'd wager money on him being able to make a good stab at translating Atlantean text, if we find any. If there's any ancient language it resembles, he'll be able to construct some sense out of it."

  "Mary Kostani," Michelle said, amused, "I don't think I've ever heard you wax quite so lyrical about anyone's talents before. Just how good of friends were you?"

  "We were…very good friends," Ghean said, with half a smile. Something about the phrase bothered her, and she fell silent a moment, the smile fading to a frown before she shook her head. "But it was a long time ago. Things have changed."

  "Ah. A falling out? Well, I'll restrain my curiosity. So shall I give the U a call back and tell them we'd be glad to accept Mr. Devane's generosity and we'd be delighted to invite Dr. Adams along on the exploratory vessel? How old is this fellow, anyway? He can't be too much older than you if you were, ah. Such good friends. But if he's as widely read as you suggest…" Michelle trailed off with a frown.

  Ghean brushed the concern aside with a wave of her hand. "I don't look old enough for my credentials, do I? Logan and I both began studying the ancient world when we were very young." A faint smile curved her lips. "Perhaps past lives haunt us, somewhere deep in our souls, and cannot be put to rest until we have settled their accounts for them."

  Michelle started to smile, but it faltered. "Sometimes, Mary, I can't quite tell when you're joking."

  Ghean's smile grew. "Isn't it more interesting that way?" She pressed her head against the seat back, tilting it toward the crack between the seats. "Go call the university back and make noises about how flattered we are that such a distinguished scholar would be interested in our little project. It's a drop in the hat compared to what we'll ultimately need, but it's a nice gesture and it certainly won't hurt the coffer. External support is bound to beget more external support, and we're going to sink an awful lot of money into the Mediterranean the over the next decade."

  Michelle grinned, standing to return to her own seat. "You don't think in the short-term, do you, Mary?"

  Ghean turned her head to rest her forehead against the window again. "You have no idea."

  Lorhen is going to be a complication, the patient one said thoughtfully. He'll be convenient for a time. We can use him to further our findings, but in time he'll grow bothersome.

  At least I know where he is now, Ghean retorted. I know he's alive. She'd never really doubted he was, of course. Even finding his notes to her in the Keeper files had only been a confirmation of what she'd always believed. After forty-five centuries, another hundred and fifty years couldn't have been enough to kill him. It was a conviction Lorhen would no doubt appreciate and encourage.

  But the numbers made her shiver. They were meaningless, really, incomprehensible. The world had changed radically in the time she'd been gone, but the actual time had simply been dark and terrifying, beyond understanding.

  We don't need to understand, the patient one broke in, firmly. Number the years or don't, but we don't need to dwell on it. We're a part of the world again now.

  She nodded against the window, drawing her thoughts away from the years and focusing instead on what mattered: that 'immortal' or not, the Timeless could die. Some were easier to kill than others, and Lorhen would not be at all easy to take. It could be done, though. He was the superior swordsman, of that there was no doubt, but Ghean had passion on her side. She noticed again she was fiddling with her ring, and painstakingly folded her fingers together in her lap.

  She'd thought Atlantis might cause the ancient Timeless to surface eventually, but she hadn't imagined it would be so easy. For a moment she let herself wonder what she would have done if he'd never come forward, or if he'd been dead, but shook the thoughts away. Illogical as it was, Lorhen had to have been alive. Ghean needed that to go forward with her life; needed the potential reunitement as a focus, however fuzzy. With billions of people in the world, it was impossible to imagine she might find one extraordinarily old man. It was equally impossible to imagine she would not: she had forever to look. And now not only had she found him, but he had invited himself along on her quest. A quest with far greater scope, now: had he thought about it more carefully, Ghean was certain Lorhen wouldn't have revealed the location of the Book of Atlantis. It was a treasure she'd barely considered, its status legendary even in her mind, and yet she had its resting place now. The temple had been so nearly utterly destroyed. Would the room beneath it have survived the sinking, or the fire that melted the temple's structure? Lorhen had mentioned the blocked- up tunnel leading out to the harbor. Ghean wavered between guesses, imagining first that the tunnel had been crushed by the settling stone, leaving the room unflooded, then supposing that the water had burst through the blockade, drowning the room beneath the temple as well as the temple itself.

  She rejected out of hand the idea that the room and Book had been destroyed together. It wasn't that it was impossible or even unlikely; it merely didn't fit into her plans. Thus far everything, including Lorhen's appearance, fit at least loosely into the groundwork she had mentally laid out. The Book would also do so.

  The Book. Ghean nestled back into the airplane seat. Her diminutive size was enough to make coach seating nearly comfortable; the roomy first class seats were luxurious. She tapped the call button for a flight attendant. A tall young man appeared moments later, smiling. "What can I do for you, ma'am?"

  "Gin and tonic, please," she requested, and smiled as it was delivered in under a minute. "Thank you." Lifting the glass to her mouth, she looked out the window again, almost content despite the flight.

  The original plan had been to search out the remaining artifacts. Atlantis' ruins were secondary, more a bitter reminder of a childhood lost than the archaeological find of the century. Somewhere in the drowned city there would be items of remarkable power. The century she'd been reborn into was nearly advanced enough to unravel their secrets.

  So many of the artifacts had been lost to time. The Hunter's cloak had apparently been gone since the days of Jason and the Argonauts. For an instant Ghean's expression darkened as she dwelled on the legend. If Lorhen had been telling the truth, Minyah had only been dead a few decades, or perhaps a century, when that adventure happened. Two millennia of life ended by a child's selfishness; two thousand years while Ghean lived and died in a lightless prison beneath the sea. She shivered, and pulled her thoughts away before she spiraled down into pointless rage at the wasted centuries.

  Good, the patient one whispered approvingly.

  The chalice, found and lost again in Christ's time; the cauldron destroyed, according to Welsh legend, when a living man climbed in it to end the evil of raising men from the dead. Ghean thought it curious that three of the artifacts appeared in the islands of Britain, when the others were so widely scattered. The other two, the sword lost to a lake and the scabbard to battle, were almost the last to be lost, by legend and history's tales. Arthur who bore the magical blade had lived only fifteen centuries ago. Ghean wondered if Lorhen had been there, and if he'd recognized the blade as Atlantean work from a life he'd left behind long ago. She sighed, closing her eyes as she sipped at the gin.

  The unicorns died with the island, and Methuselah's stone had been broken into pieces, the cry
stals scattered. The Keepers had collected some of them, storing them in a safehouse, but too many were missing; it would never work again. And both Greek and Chinese legends told tales of stones cast to the ground to sprout undead warriors, and so it seemed safe to believe those gifts—they were called the Dragon's Teeth now, surprisingly close to their Atlantean name; it had been the Dragon's House who held them, then—were irretrievable as well.

  There were others, though, House artifacts that had never appeared in legend or history. The Lion's ring had been one. The Book had been another. A girdle had been spoken about when the artifacts were mentioned, and a helmet, both reputed to protect their wearers from danger. They must still be somewhere beneath the waves, and they could be studied, perhaps replicated, but the Book would be the ultimate treasure.

  Ghean swirled her drink slowly, studying the pattern of flowing liquid. The hole in the temple would have to be expanded, but it might be possible to pump the water out, leaving the floor empty of most of the water, making excavating down beneath it possible, without flooding the room below if it remained dry.

  of the gin, and Ghean frowned, uncertain if the temple would be able to take the pressure of the water outside without it being equalized from within. No matter; it was a task she didn't have to worry about today. If Lorhen was right, the Book was sealed in a box like the one that had held her mother's papers. Short of physically cracking it open, it wouldn't leak, and so was safe even if they had to let water in to the secret room.

  The idea of the Book was still too new: Ghean could barely imagine what she might do with the knowledge kept in the pages. The dearest thought to her at the moment was to use it to rebuild Atlantis, though it could never be the same. Still, to bring its science and magic back into the world seemed a fitting tribute to the city that had died in such an untimely fashion.

  Lorhen wouldn't approve, with his unwillingness to share immortality with the world. Fortunately, Lorhen would only be part of the equation as long as he was useful. Ghean turned her attention out the window again, lifting her brandy glass to her mouth to sip at the dark liquid. The light bounced off her ring, catching in the engraved lion's head that marked the surface of gold.