He turned his focus to the larger crystal, switching on the prerecorded chant he made, hoping the water would not distort the sound. He reinforced the chant in his mind. Nothing happened for a while, but just when he wondered if he miscalculated and needed a second person, the atmosphere deepened with the pressure like that of an approaching storm. The large crystal came to life, light streaking up through the stone, illuminating the cracks, sending out rainbow bursts. Cagliostro sank down to the flank of the stone. He pictured the chamber he glimpsed that time clearly in his mind, then he reached out and touched the crystal.
Nothing happened. Schooling himself to patience yet again, he kept up the chant. After another minute, the stone warmed under his hand and then softened like a lover loosening beneath his attentions. Cagliostro’s fingers sank beneath the surface. He started. Could it be? Could this be the way the transports were accomplished? He couldn’t remember what happened last time. Maybe they wiped his memory. Steeling himself, he pushed against the flank of the crystal. It gave way. He was inside.
Cagliostro fought to control his excitement. Again, he built the image of the chamber in his mind, and in answer, the crystal sent a surge of energy through him. His body became transparent. He forced down a wave of fear. Everything dissolved in light. When he could see again, the room he sought shimmered outside the wall of the crystal. The floor came into focus first, blue tile with gold symbols embossed in it. Around the wall stood crystals, twelve tall sentinels, all lit up.
Cagliostro moved toward the surface of the Fire Stone, pushing his now naked body forward through the congealing crystal as if walking through a strong current. He emerged, newborn, falling to the tiles, gulping air. When he caught his breath, he stood on shaky legs and looked around. The Tuaoi Stone towered above him, the clear base reflecting the dying light in small bursts; the flanks soared above his head, tapering to a translucent point. Above the tip, the sun shone through paper-thin crystal panels in the shape of a flower. He made it at last. He was in Atlantis.
Names and explanations for the symbols on the floor began to come to him—the Platonic solids. The equations for balancing the energy of the crystal appeared in his mind. It was all so clear, simple really. How could he have forgotten? He moved toward the doors of the temple. Beyond them, the city—his city—waited for him. He stopped, realizing he needed clothes. More doors led off the main chamber. He tried the first. It led to an observation lounge. The next opened on a hallway with small rooms furnished with cots, then on a central bath. Finally he came to a dressing room. Robes of various sizes, shapes, and color hung off a series of pegs. Cagliostro chose green; it reminded him of something…he couldn’t stop to remember what. He made his way back across the blue tile, past the row of sentinels and to the doors. He pushed them open.
The sun blinded him at first—tropical sun, somehow different, whispering to him. He shook his head against it and kept walking across the flagstones. Soon the path forked, one branch leading up the hill to a pleasant villa tucked amongst the trees, the other heading toward a larger building of yellow limestone blocks. This would lead to the city.
He walked through a series of gardens—nooks of brilliant flowers, a small tree filled with flowers past a splashing fountain. A smaller building lay ahead. What looked like a car sat outside waiting. Two people got in and it lifted off. Cagliostro stopped in his tracks to watch the silver craft fly through the sky. Someone spotted him and waved him forward. The man asked him something—the language, he didn’t speak the language—then gestured to a worker inside the building. Another silver craft pulled forward and the man opened the back door. Cagliostro stepped inside and sat down. The driver turned and said something. He nodded in reply, and, miracle of miracle, the craft lifted off.
Like a small boy, Cagliostro pressed his face to the window and watched the beautiful temple complex grow smaller. The blue expanse of the ocean opened up beneath them, then the craft turned and the emerald green of the plain stretched away. The mountains appeared in their blue and purple, and the round cone of a volcano. The craft tilted once more and before him lay the city—the three circular canals that Plato told of gleaming blue, the buildings golden in the mid-morning sunlight, a riot of colorful gardens crisscrossed with small streets. The vehicle flew past, toward the hills.
“No,” Cagliostro said, his hand flying up to the window. “No.”
The driver frowned and hit a switch. “Have you forgotten your translation crystal, sir?”
Cagliostro stared. He hadn’t thought of this, a foreign language spoken in his own home. “Yes, I’m sorry.”
“No problem. It’s understandable with all the excitement.”
“Uh, yes.”
“You don’t want to go to your guild, sir?”
“My guild?”
The driver’s eyes darted to his robe.
“No. The city.”
“Of course.” The craft banked at an alarming angle. “Anywhere in particular?”
“Uh, the market.” Yes, that would put him in a crowd. He needed to look around and get the lay of the place, before searching for the artifacts the Shadow Government always coveted. The driver still frowned, so Cagliostro said, “The main one.” That seemed to satisfy him.
The craft set down minutes later at another garage-like building just off a series of crowded streets. Cagliostro got out, briefly wondering if payment was expected.
“Here, sir.” The driver handed him a small tabby connected to an even smaller silver box. “A translation device.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry. The Crystal Guild keeps plenty on hand.” He nodded. “Enjoy your stay in Eden.”
Eden. Yes, it was paradise, wasn’t it?
“Thank you,” he said. The man got back into the craft and Cagliostro walked to the street. She must be here somewhere.
The stalls and shops of the city of Eden enthralled him. He smelled essential oils from Egypt, sampled exotic spices and foods from the Americas, tried a horn from the mountains of the east. When the sun passed its zenith and began its journey toward the western mountains, he found a restaurant serving the most ingenious stew he ever tasted, made of some root vegetables, beans, and spices. He drank a fruit drink of citrus and mangos—at least he thought that’s what was in it. They expected no payment, just like the cab driver.
Satisfied, Cagliostro strolled the streets, looking for a vantage point. The dome of the crystal temple was beautiful, but nothing compared with his memories. First he would find the area of the city he remembered, then…but the desire to do the bidding of the Shadow Government was fading. They didn’t know he succeeded in reaching Atlantis. He went in search of those airy domes, those spires of captured fire. He would find her there and decide what to do next. He walked toward a large garden he saw from the air.
Everywhere the talk was of the trial. Shopkeepers and customers speculated on the crimes that were committed. “I heard they were restructuring our genetic code.”
“No, no, they’ve killed other creatures, changed them somehow.”
Outside a crockery shop, someone said, “Have you heard about the attacks from the mountains?”
“Attacks? What are you talking about? Atlantis has been at peace since…well, forever.”
“Right, that’s why we have an army,” a young man sneered.
“I heard the animals are retaliating,” the girl on his arm added.
Cagliostro listened to the talk with growing alarm. Did he come at the wrong time? This did not match his memories of peaceful days spent dallying with his friends, drinking sweet mead, sailing the barge on the water…and her, always her—her smiling face, her laugh, her flame-red hair. Where was she? He hurried into the park and walked through the sheltering trees, searching. He came to the edge of the hill and a vista opened up before him—houses built of golden stones nestled amo
ng trees, streets that meandered up the small hills, the city farther north. Yes, there were domes of glass and even one spire stretching to touch the ever-blue sky, but this was not it. This was not the city he remembered.
Agitated, he made his way back to the street and walked. He must get back. He must get back to the crystal. He must go home. Maybe he came to the wrong city. Perhaps the place he remembered was south of here. He didn’t know. All he knew was he had to return. He had to find her. He would go back to the portal. He would hold the image in his mind. The Tuaoi Stone would return him. Finally realizing he was lost, he went to the nearest shop and asked for directions. The man frowned at his curt tone, but Cagliostro didn’t care. He was close, just around the corner. At the garage, he asked for a ride back to the Crystal Guild. He rode in silence, hands clenched, eager to return, to go back and sink into the Fire Stone and to go home again.
The craft set him down outside the Crystal Guild complex, and he made his way back up the hill to the temple. The sun was setting. He hurried in, relieved to find the place empty. He closed the door and began the ritual of switching on the great Fire Stone—the chant, the sequence of tones, it all came to him. It was so much easier to think here, to remember, but it wasn’t the right place. He would come to his real self once he found home. Soon the towering crystal sang to life. He dropped his green robe and chanted more, but there was an edge to his voice and an unfamiliar urgency in his soul, and the hum of the crystal was rough. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but to open it up. He sang again, and the crystal answered him, softening under his touch. He forced his way inside, groaning against the pain, then he showed the stone where he wanted to go, the airy domes and towering spires of his home. The crystal waited, emitting a high-pitched whine, vibrating alarmingly.
“What is wrong with you? Don’t you remember? Here.” He pictured the city. “Take me here.”
Something was wrong. Cagliostro looked out and saw people running into the temple, a muscular man in the lead. They were shouting.
“Take me home,” he demanded, and the crystal swooshed to life, irradiating him with light and dissolving his body. In the blink of an eye, the scene shifted. He was back, back at the bottom of the ocean, back to the impotent triangle he set up of three, only three sentinels…only three.
“No,” he screamed in his mind, and something deep inside the Earth rumbled, matching his rage. The world tilted. He tried to take a breath, but choked. It was water. He kicked toward the shimmering surface as fast as he could, his lungs burning. His head cleared the surface and he gulped air. An arm reached out from nowhere and pulled him onto a flat surface. Hands began to push on his chest. He lost consciousness.
Chapter Twenty-One
Govannan ran toward the central crystal, but the form already began to fade and he bounced off the hardening surface of the stone. What in the name of the One was happening? How could only one being manage the energy of the Fire Stone? The floor tipped out from under him, and he knew the answer; no one could, not safely. He landed hard and tried to scramble up, but another quake sent him sprawling. His head ached and his stomach threatened to turn itself inside out. This crazy person unjointed the Earth’s balance, the delicate harmony of dimensions. Would they be able to repair it in time? More members of the pod arrived, racing to their stations.
Ianara ran to him. “Are you hurt?”
“No, I don’t think so,” he said, but his leg buckled with his first step. He grabbed her shoulder. “Help me to my place.” Already the chant was building around him, soothing but strong, like the voice of a mother separating squabbling children. With her help, he limped to his place, then looked around the circle to see who was missing.
“Herasto,” he and Ianara said in unison. She moved off to find him.
“Rhea, too. Call Rhea since we don’t have Megan,” he shouted to her retreating back. Another tremor shook the ground. The Fire Stone groaned alarmingly. Govannan looked around at the frightened faces of his pod. “If one person can do this much damage, nine of us can fix it,” he shouted above the creaking of the stone.
A few nodded, and they began again, singing the notes that always opened their circle, then moving into the calming chant again, the one used to lull the eddies of energy to sleep after a transport. It seemed paltry against the enormous currents rushing through the crystal like spikes of fever in a shivering patient. Herasto came running in, followed by Ianara. They took their places, and the psychic connection they all usually shared during a transport finally took hold. As leader of the pod, Govannan directed their awareness deep into the Fire Stone. A sharp pain stabbed through his head. Daphyll threw up then began to chant again, clutching her stomach. Rhea rushed in, took a look around, and went to Megan’s place. Finally the circle was complete.
They worked for hours it seemed, knitting the boundaries of the worlds back together. They ran their awareness through each temple on the huge spiral, restoring the frequencies, shunting off the excesses of energy, enlivening places that were fading because no energy flowed through them at all. They sang to the great Tuaoi Stone, wrestling with the huge surges of energy and the sudden bursts of almost-emotion. The images didn’t make sense—the bottom of the ocean, a being with white-blond hair. Such anger. Such loneliness. More than anyone should have to bear.
Once peace was restored to the towering crystal and their spiral, they switched to Gaia herself, feeling deep into the solid plates that made up her shell over the red heat of her heart. The enormity of power dwarfed them. Their efforts seemed futile. Govannan opened his eyes and the outer world swam into view. The observation room was packed with people, most in silent meditation, channeling their strength to the workers. Oria, the head of the Gaia Guild, stood on the outskirts of the circle with a group of her people, their green robes somehow comforting among all the white and ultraviolet. She waited for the Crystal Matrix workers to all open their eyes, then she held up her palms.
“Please don’t move.” She looked at Govannan. “The Earth’s mantle has been wounded. May we join you?”
Govannan glanced at Rhea, who nodded. The Gaia priests and priestesses took up places at even intervals between the Crystal Matrix workers. Once all were arranged, Oria guided them in meditation deep into the Earth. It was different from their usual quicksilver work with the crystals. The steadiness and careful plodding of the Gaia Guild that maddened Govannan in the past was now appreciated. It was the consciousness of granite and basalt, the pace of the earth itself, the patience of water winding through rock to eventually create a canyon. Govannan slowed to that vibration, barely breathing, and followed Oria into the mantle beneath his feet. He saw it in their collective mind, the crack, a long line showing red just like a cut on skin. It was not blood welling up; it was fire, a fire that would consume them all. The volcanoes of Atlantis, their source of power, of heat, the temples of attunement—they would welcome this fire. They might open too far, consuming all life.
The two groups worked well into the night, slowly mending, cajoling, chanting until their voices grew rough and their throats threatened to close. Someone brought them water. Govannan drank greedily. Water, wet and cool, to quench the fires, to quiet the eruptions. Slowly, the Earth settled. The aftershocks came to a halt. The cracks congealed, still showing red. A hush fell over everything. The healers came on silent feet, leading the workers off, some to the Healing Temple, others to their rooms in the villa. They were bathed, fed soup, and put to bed. Govannan fought to stay awake.
“We aren’t finished.” He moved his head back and forth on the pillow. “There’s still a crack.”
“Shh,” a voice said. “Hush. We are safe for now. Sleep.”
He did.
* * * *
Govannan woke with a start, but when he tried to get up, he found every limb ached. He lifted his head and laid it back down when the room started spinning. Ancient Thuya, of all people, c
ame to him. “Pleione sent over this remedy.” She squeezed some drops in a glass of water, wrinkling her nose. “It smells vile. In Al Khem, we make our medicines tasty.” She held the glass for him.
Govannan lowered his mouth to the rim and made a face.
“Drink up,” came the order.
He gulped it down and laughed, remembering how Thuya was here when he first came, a young boy fresh from the Emergence Ceremony, already homesick. She made him a dish from his home city, humming while she watched him eat. His head cleared from the medicine. “What time is it?”
“Late. The sun has almost set.” He made a move to get up, but Thuya pushed him back. Indeed, he was weak as a newborn. “Pleione says all of you must stay in bed until morning.”
“But—”
“The Earth is quiet now. The Crystal Matrix Chamber is closed. You need your strength for the trial.”
Govannan got an elbow under himself and tried to push up. “I forgot about that. We need to find out what happened.”
Thuya pushed him back down, gentle but insistent. “You need to get well. Everyone is resting. It will keep until morning.”
Pleione must have slipped something into her concoction, because try as he might, Govannan couldn’t keep his eyes open. He drifted back to sleep.
The next morning he felt himself again, except the limp returned. He arrived at the villa’s dining hall to a flurry of speculation.
“It couldn’t be a human,” Herasto said. “No human has enough power.”
“What are you saying then?” Daphyll frowned at him over her cup. “That one of the Star Elders did it? That’s impossible.”
“It had to be one of the Elder Races,” he insisted. “They’re the only ones with that kind of ability.”
“He could have been helped by a group at another portal,” another pod member pointed out.
Govannan sat with Ianara, and they surveyed the room. It was their responsibility to keep balance here. “I’m afraid the predication of the Star Elders is coming to pass,” he said.
Beneath the Hallowed Hill Page 29
