by C. E. Murphy
26
Lorhen stood on the Mediterranean shore, hands shoved deeply in his pockets. Despite the heat, he wore his greatcoat, the heavy black wool stirring slightly in the breeze off the water. The wind had more success with his hair, ruffling it in slightly varying patterns, leaving a few black strands to stand up straight when it faded away. Khaki pants and a white polo shirt, open at the throat, were something of a concession to the temperature. The sandals that left his toes bared were the greatest indication that he'd left the chillier climate of Chicago thousands of miles behind.
He stood with his eyes closed, tasting the salt and fish in the air. A hundred miles off the coast, drowned beneath the sea, lay the city that had been Ghean's prison for so long. It had never occurred to him to go back and look; of all the possibilities of what might have been that he'd considered, that had simply never crossed his mind. And now they were going back, Ghean and himself, in a race that neither would acknowledge: a race to find the Book, to control it. To hide it, if Lorhen had his way, although Cathal would never approve.
Lorhen smiled thinly at the waves. Cathal had changed him. Less than a decade ago, Lorhen wouldn't have stopped to consider what another's actions might be, or whether his own were right or wrong in the eyes of another. Now, at least, he thought about it. It generally took Cathal's actual presence to make Lorhen go against his base instincts, but it was a remarkable change to have affected in such a short period of time.
Cathal was back in St Louis, at any rate, and unable to translate the Book anyway. He was welcome to hand it over to science; they could puzzle over it together. Lorhen didn't necessarily object to the knowledge being available, and was admittedly curious to re-read it himself. The authors of the Book had had both science and magic beyond his grasp, nearly five millennia earlier. Now he could more easily map the symbolism they'd used to medical knowledge—the twisting snakes that built the body were DNA, of course, but he'd had no concept of such a thing, in Atlantis.
That the Timeless who had settled the island had, was astonishing. That they'd been steeped in magic so deep it became—Lorhen laughed and tipped an imaginary hat toward the hidden stars, saying, "So deep it became indistinguishable from science," aloud, before letting the spill of waves and wind take the place of words again—it fascinated and frightened him. He simply didn't want the kind of knowledge available in the Book to be misused, and he was far too old a student of humanity to believe anything else would happen. The answer, then, was to either destroy it, or control it.
Or, he supposed, make it open source. Give it not to the scientific and medical establishments, but the internet, although it would still require resources—gods knew what kind—to pursue its secrets, and the resources, as always, remained mostly in the hands of the obscenely wealthy. So perhaps it came back to destroy or control, and he would infinitely prefer to control it. He certainly wouldn't willingly destroy the book, any more than he would have agreed to torch the libraries at Alexandria or Nalanda. It was possible humanity would someday reach the point where his kind and mortals could live together; it was possible that the day would come that immortality would be parceled out to everyone, not just the rich.
It was possible that pigs would sprout wings and fly away. Until all of those things came to pass, Lorhen wanted to be the one with the Book. He didn't trust anyone else. He angled up the beach, heading back to where he'd parked. The sharp cries of seagulls slowed him, and he looked back out over the water, pain tightening his features. Guilt he'd left behind a long time ago, but regret, it seemed, was unavoidable.
Lorhen turned his back on the water, and finished the climb to his car.
He was almost surprised that Ghean wasn't waiting for him at the car. She knew he'd come to Greece; the University of Chicago had returned Cathal's call, politely falling all over itself in its eagerness to accept the donation to the Atlantis fund. They were almost rabidly apologetic at Dr. Kostani's insistence that only Dr. Adams accompany her in the undersea explorations, although, the harried woman on the other end of the line assured Cathal, he was most definitely welcome if he wished to stay at the land base. Cathal had looked at Lorhen, and demurred with such speed that Lorhen was fairly certain the Irishman had decided he would be a third wheel in an absurdly romantic storyline. He'd rolled his eyes as he'd hung up the phone, but Cathal had only smiled.
It wasn't that the idea was unappealing. Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom. Certainly no one was more qualified than Lorhen to pass judgment on love's ability to pass through the centuries, not that dead lovers often returned to life. Not often, but sometimes; Ghean wasn't actually the first, and probably wouldn't be the last. Her reappearance had a gut-wrenching effect, a sick, thudding disbelief in the pit of the stomach that somehow brought all of the good moments to mind.
Ghean still had her intensity, the dark-eyed focus that made the rest of the universe fade away. Watching her, as they'd exchanged stories, filling in what had happened in Atlantis and after, had been breathtaking. The short haircut that hit at her cheekbones highlighted her eyes in a way the hip-length style she'd worn in Atlantis never could have. The innocence had been lost, as he'd feared. Whether it was the first death, or the ensuing thousands of years of captivity that had broken naivete away from her was irrelevant. Replacing it was anger, a fire that burned a little too near the surface. It was, in its own way, equally compelling, perhaps even more so, for the danger inherent within.
It was also what kept the idea of rekindled romance nothing more than a charming and idle thought. He thrived on passion, other people's passion; his own was too hard to kindle, after so many millennia. It was one reason Cathal, and even Emma and Lisse, had come to matter to Lorhen. They each had an astonishing passion in life—Cathal for his rigid code of right and wrong, Emma for her belief in the Keepers, and Lisse in her sheer joy in going beyond the borders of legality. Lorhen had his own passions, more tempered; scholarship, the practice of medicine, and, above all else, survival.
Ghean had passion in her anger, but no visible focus. It wasn't, Lorhen was certain, that the focus wasn't there, only that he couldn't see it. Far too many years separated them to be able to intuitively guess what she might be thinking or plotting. Until he knew, Lorhen couldn't let sentimentality cloud his judgment.
And yet he'd expected her to be waiting for him at the car. Even he could see the humor, and the arrogance, in that.
It wasn't impossible that she might have been waiting. The University had offered him a room in the small complex they were renting for their land base, but Lorhen had declined. The key word in their description seemed to be 'small'. Lorhen was uncomfortable with placing himself so near to another Timeless, particularly one he didn't entirely trust. Though he'd never slept through the tingling headache that announced another Timeless arrival, the warning wasn't a constant: once an Timeless entered the range of sensitivity, the feeling faded away. Lorhen preferred not to risk the proximity being so close that the warning would be useless, and had rented himself a room in a bed and breakfast. The University had the name and room number, and Ghean could have learned from the proprietor that Dr. Adams had asked directions to the beach that morning.
Lorhen pulled the car up to the B&B, shaking his head at himself. All of that would be a great deal of effort on Ghean's part, and for a man who'd just sworn off revitalized romances, he was spending a lot of time imagining how Ghean might 'just happen' to come across him. He glanced around the car, decided there was nothing worth stealing, and left it without locking the doors, to take the stairs up to the second floor of the B&B two at a time.
Halfway up, the chill of warning slashed through him. Glancing over his shoulder to assure himself there were no mortals lurking, Lorhen drew his shorter blade, taking the last steps more cautiously. At the head of the stairs, he craned his neck around the corner, peering down the hallway.
Ghean stepped out of his room, hands spread deliberately
wide and open at her sides. "They let me in," she called. "I explained I was a work colleague. I don't," she added, a smile crossing her face, "think they believed me."
Lorhen sighed, coming around the corner and down the hall without resheathing his knife. "Don't do that. I behave badly when surprised."
"Only when you're surprised? You seem to have displayed bad behavior extensively since we've become reacquainted." Ghean went back into his room, Lorhen a step behind her.
The room was pink. The walls themselves were an inoffensive pale rose, just enough color to them to warm the room. Alone, it would have been pleasant. Unfortunately, the decorator hadn't stopped there. A fuzzy carpet, a few shades off fuchsia and with loops coming out of the weave, reflected off the walls, leaving both floor and walls brighter than they'd originally been. The curtains over the small window almost defied putting a name to the color; Lorhen had reluctantly decided they were closer to magenta than anything else. The bedclothes were not only pink, but were embroidered with heavy red roses. The effect was overwhelming. Lorhen had literally taken a step backwards when shown into the room, dismay on his features. The proprietor had shrugged helplessly. "It is late in the season. We are redecorating rooms. This is the only one not torn up."
It didn't get better with repeated exposure. Lorhen considered buying a pair of sunglasses just to deal with the glare of the room, although he loathed wearing them outside. Ghean was grinning at the decor. "It's very you, Lor—"
"Logan," he corrected before she finished the word. After an audible pause, she continued.
"Logan. I think they call this being in touch with your feminine side?"
"I make a terrible woman. Too flat-chested, and I just can't disguise the adam's apple. I have," he added, "been surprised a lot since your reappearance."
"Isn't life more exciting that way?" Ghean sat down on the bed, leaving the chair—covered with a pink plush—for Lorhen. He eyed it distastefully, but sat, kicking his feet up on the dresser. He hadn't examined it, but it was probably made of rosewood, to keep in theme.
"No, it's more unpredictable. I don't like unpredictable. Speaking of which, what are you doing here?"
Ghean's eyebrows rose, disappearing beneath her bangs. "Is my appearance unpredictable?"
Lorhen cast a glance at her, then chuckled despite himself. "I was expecting you while I was down at the beach."
"I see. I'll have to work on my timing, then." Ghean folded her arms, leaning against the headboard. "I've painted a glowing review of you, Lorhen. Michelle's expecting a venerable old man, or a child genius beyond compare."
Lorhen leaned backwards in the plush-covered chair, tilting it precariously far and snagging the door with his fingertips to swing it closed as Ghean used his real name again. Her eyebrows lifted a second time, curious. "You're going to have to learn to call me Logan."
"Why? We're behind closed doors now."
"Don't be difficult."
Ghean dimpled, a mockingly apologetic smile. "I'm terribly sorry, Logan. But since we are behind closed doors, can't I use your true name?"
Goosebumps ran over Lorhen's arms, even under the greatcoat he hadn't shed. A true name was a thing of power and he, despite knowing better, seemed to be a superstitious old man. "You can call me Lorhen," he agreed. "But watch it in public, Ghean. Legends are confirmed by chance encounters and eavesdropping, and I much prefer my status to be legendary instead of confirmed."
Ghean lifted a hand to her lips, pursing them and tapping her thumb against them idly. "Were you this paranoid in Atlantis, Lorhen?"
"No," he said shortly. "but I was a lot younger then, too."
Ghean was silent a moment, folding her arms again. "Tell me about your life, Lorhen," she asked quietly. "Tell me about the life I might have lived."
Lorhen studied her a few seconds. She wore a white silk tanktop tucked into an above-the-knee black skirt. The tank left her arms bared, and there was more muscle in them than Lorhen remembered from Atlantis. She'd left her shoes, black pumps, on the floor, and had her ankles crossed in front of her on the bed. The Hunter's necklace was caught in her arms, silver chain loose against her neck. Her hair was held back by a white headband, leaving her bangs down. She looked kitten-like, brown eyes tempered with curiosity. Lorhen shut his eyes against the image, and stood to pull his coat off and drape it over the back of his chair. "You read the chronicles. That's a lot of what your life might have been like, and I'll tell you the rest another time. Right now I need to know about this role I'm supposed to play."
"You sound like I've assigned it to you." Ghean's face lost the odd youthfulness and settled into more determined lines. "It was your idea to tag along on my exploration."
"Yes, but you told your Dr. Powers that I was unutterably clever. While I'd never disagree, I need to know how far my supposed boundaries stretch."
"She's known me for years," Ghean defended herself. "I can only push my own apparent knowledge so far, before it starts to look suspicious. You wanted to come along. The least I could do was make you useful to me."
"I live to serve," Lorhen said dryly. "What do I know, Ghean, or shall I just make it up as I go along?" He steepled his fingers, listening intently as Ghean outlined the history she'd sketched for Michelle. "Good God," he burst out when she was done. "You told her I could translate Atlantean?"
"Don't be silly," she said smoothly. "I merely suggested that if anyone could, you could. Besides, there may be nothing left. The papyrus and scrolls won't have survived."
"Unless they're encapsulated like the Book was," Lorhen said.
"Even so, the room might have been destroyed, Those boxes won't hold up under being crushed into a pulp, no matter how well made they were." Ghean took a pillow and switched ends of the bed, rolling onto her stomach and folding the pillow under her chin to she could keep watching Lorhen.
Lorhen arched an eyebrow. "Do you think it was destroyed?"
Ghean hesitated. "I don't want it to have been. There isn't a great deal left to the city, Lorhen. Without something like the Book, I'll never prove that Atlantis really was the great advanced civilization of legend. I want it to be there."
"How were you going to do that before I told you about the Book's location?"
Ghean shrugged a shoulder. "Dig up the sewer systems, rebuild the art that I could. Hope for the miraculous preservation of texts. The Book would make it much easier."
"Papyrus was heavy. It might have survived underwater, if it was in anything sealed or partially sealed. Is that what you're looking for, Ghean? Ease of fame and fortune?"
Ghean's eyes glittered as she looked up at Lorhen. "No," she said softly. "I want Atlantis back."
Lorhen shook his head. "It's gone. It's been gone for thousands of years. The past doesn't come back."
"I did," Ghean said. "You did. All we need is the island, now."
"I doubt you're going to be able to raise it from the sea floor, Ghean. Somebody doesn't like it when Timeless fight on holy ground. Atlantis is drowned for good."
Ghean shifted again, sitting up cross-legged with the pillow hugged across her middle. "How did you know?" she asked. "How did you know that something terrible would happen?"
Lorhen spread his hands. "Not much revulses me, Ghean. Even then, not much did, but the idea of fighting on holy ground made my skin crawl. It's as powerful a feeling as the urge to fight when we meet. I didn't know what would happen, and I didn't want to stay to find out. I don't remember ever being in a similar situation before that. The idea just scared the hell out of me, so I ran."
"A lot of people would call you a coward," Ghean observed softly.
"A lot of people," Lorhen said, "would be dead. What do you want me to say, Ghean? Do you want me to say I'm sorry? I'm sorry you were caught in an oubliette for four and a half millennia. Does that help? Does it make it better, or make it all go away?"
Ghean's shoulders tensed as she looked at Lorhen. "Are you sorry you didn't try to rescue me?"
"No," Lorhen said, and watched everything gentle drain from Ghean's face. "You're asking me to be sorry for putting my survival first, and I won't do that, Ghean."
She stood up, putting her shoes on and placing the pillow very carefully back at the head of the bed. "The first expedition leaves at seven, Tuesday morning. We'll be meeting a ship anchored out in the Mediterranean, and we'll go out to the site from there. Please be on time." She brushed past him, stopping just inside the door to look over her shoulder. "You could have lied."
Lorhen listened to the staccato clip of her heels going down the hallway, standing to go to the window when the sound faded entirely. Pushing the curtain aside, he looked down into the parking lot. Ghean came out a moment later, climbing into her car and slamming the door with a hard dull thud. Seconds later the car disappeared down the road. She hadn't been an enemy when she came in, but Lorhen was not certain she wasn't one as she left.
Poorly, if honestly, handled, he thought mockingly, and turned away from the window, letting the curtain drop.
27
The research vessel was a made-over fishing boat, and called Retribution. Lorhen scowled at the peeling letters on the prow, waiting for the gangplank to be lowered to the dock. "You couldn't possibly have named it that deliberately," he said to Ghean, who stood a few feet away.
She glanced up at the ship and laughed. "It was donated by an oceanographer about fifteen years ago. He was going through an ugly divorce and got rid of the ship as a tax write-off. His only stipulation was that it be named Retribution."
Lorhen glanced back at the ship with a little more approval. "I like his sense of humor."
