“No,” Ophiuchus answered, as Marco followed the astonishing conversation, trying to grasp what was implied and left unsaid. “Marco and I are on our way to Persephone’s Gate. We intend to go to the underworld and resurrect Iasco, then bring her back so that she can meet her destiny.
“Which is why we’re here. Can you tell us how to find the Gate?” the spirit explained.
“It’s only a day away; go to the Ploutoneion Cave in Athens, and enter the third chamber on the right,” Diotima directed.
“Come here, Golden Hand,” she said as she turned to face Marco. “Step into my waters so that I may know you.”
Without looking at his companion, Marco released her hand to obey the water spirit.
“Give me your sword, Marco,” Ophiuchus directed him, as she immediately began to shrink and age.
Without knowing why the sword would matter, Marco pulled it from his scabbard and handed to her, then watched with surprise as she immediately evolved back to her glorious form.
“Marco, come,” Diotima reminded him. He turned from Ophiuchus, and turned back to the other spirit in the small gathering. With a moment of hesitation, Marco stepped into the pool, and felt the water pour over the tops of his boot, chilling his feet and ankles.
Diotima reached forth to him with her watery hands, and grasped his left hand. The sensation sent shivers through Marco’s flesh, as the cool liquid firmly grasped him and pulled his hand up to her mouth. She pursed her lips and bent over his hand, her eyes turned up alluringly to watch his reaction as she first kissed his index finger, then opened her mouth and slid the finger within the moist cavity.
Marco’s eye’s opened wide in a mixture of numerous emotions – astonishment, fear, pleasure.
Diotima raised her head, her eyes still on Marco’s face, and slid the finger out of her mouth, then lifted his hand up to his own face and pressed the finger between his own lips, inserting his finger within.
“Are you seducing my prodigy?” Ophiuchus asked in a tone that was half amused, half annoyed.
“There now Golden Hand, what do you have?” Diotima asked him.
He instinctively sucked on the finger, then coughed in astonishment, as he felt his finger tingle with energy, while a steady stream of water flowed into his mouth.
He pulled the finger out as Diotima released her grip on him. “Water! I drank water from my finger!”
“This is my gift to you,” the water spirit said. “You will never thirst for water. Whenever you need, the water of my spring – my body – will flow freely for you. Use it sparingly, but do not hesitate to use it when in need. It can bring health, as well as sooth thirst of course.”
“Thank you, my lady!” Marco said with sincere and unfeigned gratitude. “In the underworld this will be valuable beyond words!”
“Diotima, that was well played,” Ophiuchus smiled.
“Not as valuable as your gift, but something that I believe can help,” Diotima said. “Go now on your journey, and know that I will lend any help I am able to. We all are with you,” she looked from Ophiuchus to Marco and back again, before she dissolved back into her spring-fed pool.
The pair of travelers left the spring and returned to the main road out of Andikara, and resumed traveling east, as the sun set behind them. “Here you are Marco,” Opi placed his sword back in his scabbard as she placed her hand back atop his golden right hand.
“Why did holding my sword give you energy?” Marco asked, puzzled.
There was a moment of silence from his spirit companion. “I didn’t realize that you didn’t know, but I suppose I’ve never told you.
“Your sword is very special,” she told him.
“I know! It’s saved my life over and over and over,” Marco said. “It knows how to fight – it does my fighting for me.”
“The sword became that way when you carried it through the amniotic vat in the bowels of my island; it was endowed with its extraordinary abilities. Those abilities are a part of my powers, given to the sword so that it can protect you. In a sense, I have been by your side ever since the sword was empowered using my own energy,” she told him.
“You’ve done that for me?” Marco asked. “Do you need your powers back? Would you be stronger?”
“I don’t need the powers as badly as you need the sword,” Ophiuchus said. “You continue on, and remember that even when you can’t see me, a part of me will be with you, to help you be the champion I need.”
“The champion you need to revive the champion you really need?” Marco asked, remembering the bits of the conversation he had heard between the two spirits.
“Perhaps, but I need you, and I am honored to have someone like you rise up for us – all of us – Marco,” she answered gently, and her hand squeezed his. “Let us look for a place to spend the night,” she suggested as they entered a small city.
“I don’t have much money left for a room at the inn,” Marco pointed out.
“You’ll have enough for a night or two, and that’s all you need,” Ophiuchus told him. “Where we’re going, they don’t charge rent,” she chuckled.
“Will that be two rooms?” the lady at the desk asked as they entered the only inn in the settlement five minutes later.
“No, just one. We’re newlyweds and I don’t want to be separated from my new husband. See the collar I put on him?” Opi playfully fingered the golden torq that Marco wore. “I won’t even let go of his hand,” she raised the intertwined fingers they held.
The desk clerk quietly harrumphed, making Opi grin even more. “If you ever feel you need medical help, please go to the closest cult temple and tell them that you were sent by Marco and Ophiuchus,” the spirit told the clerk, feeling a need to make up for the teasing she had inflicted.
They spent the night in a cozy bedroom on the ground floor, Iasco’s cart jammed into the space between the bed and the wall. Ophiuchus laid in the bed, her hand touching Marco’s, not truly sleeping, as her consciousness remained ever awake, and a part of her still maintained awareness of activities taking place back on her island.
“How are my friends doing?” Marco asked her as they lay still. “Do you know?”
The spirit closed her eyes and didn’t answer; Marco wondered if he had asked something wrong.
“They are well,” Ophiuchus answered. “The ones on the island of the merpeople are happy. They have made friends with the merfolks, and of course, with each other.
“How is Pesino?” Marco asked. He had particularly wanted to know about the former mermaid when he had asked.
“She is adjusting. She is doing well,” Opi told him. “She loves the one she is with,” the spirit added. “They are living together.
“And the other ones who went on the quest with you, they made it out of the underworld, and are also staying in the same city of men,” she told him. “It takes effort to look at such things when I am so far from home.”
“Thank you,” Marco told her. He would not strain her further by asking how Mirra was doing, though he longed to know.
The spirit awoke Marco early the next morning, shortly after sunrise.
“We should be on our way, my friend,” the spirit told him. “We will arrive at the Ploutoneion Cave today, and I’m anxious to discover,” she stopped her sentence.
“Discover what?” Marco asked sleepily.
“We will see Golden Hand, we will see,” she ended the conversation, and they arose from bed. They were out of the inn before any of the staff but the cooks were awake, and they started traveling towards the great city of Athens. By early afternoon they had passed over the well-traveled up-and-down road that led to Athens, and entered the gates of the city, passing through under the watchful eyes of a score of grim-faced guards in black and red uniforms.
Ophiuchus’s grip on Marco tightened. “Those are the same soldiers as the ones who killed Iasco!” she hissed to Marco. “I can feel it. The city has been occupied by the forces of evil. We must be careful.”
/> They walked along a main boulevard until they stood in the center of the city, looking up at the Acropolis.
“It’s extraordinary,” Marco said softly.
“The Great Father has worn many faces in the old times when he inspired different cultures in different ways,” Ophiuchus answered. “But then he changed the rules and sent his son.” She smiled softly for a moment.
“Let’s have lunch, shall we?” Ophiuchus squeezed Marco’s hand. She was staring at a well-regarded restaurant.
“I don’t think we can afford much there,” Marco answered.
“Let’s just go inside, and see if any music is playing,” the spirit answered with a wistful expression.
Marco gave a shrug and wheeled Iasco’s cart towards the door. A doorman seemed ready to turn them away, but Ophiuchus gave a little wave of her hand, and the man’s face went blank, as he held the door open for them.
Inside there was a ballroom, where a band played soft, elegant music as a handful of couples danced. Across the hall there was a dining room, where many others were eating. Most of the men in the dining room, as well as those on the dance floor, wore the same black and red uniforms they had seen at the gate, and patrolling the streets.
“Will you dance with me, Marco?” Ophiuchus asked softly.
Marco looked at her in surprise, and saw a wanting look in her eyes, a plea for him to whirl with her around the dance floor. He parked Iasco’s cart against the wall of the ballroom, then awkwardly stepped onto the dance floor, and gingerly placed a hand on the spirit’s waist, as she faced him, and they began to dance.
“I’ve never danced before,” she told Marco, her eyes sparkling. “I’ve listened to women talk about dancing for hundreds of years, but I never have done this!
“Thank you,” she told Marco, and she closed the distance between their bodies, as she pressed herself against his and rested her head on his shoulder. “Now, no matter what, I’ll always have the memory of dancing.”
“You could dance a hundred dances a day, as beautiful as you are; you’d not lack partners, better ones than me,” Marco told her, confused by her wistful tone. “I’ll come dance with you on the island when all of this is over,” he promised.
“That would be wonderful, were it possible,” Ophiuchus answered.
“Why’s a fine woman like you wasting time with a boy like this? You need a man to take care of you,” one of the uniformed officers spoke, having approached unnoticed, as he roughly grasped Marco’s shoulder and pulled the two apart.
Ophiuchus gave an instant shout as her hand parted from Marco’s, while he staggered backwards three steps.
“Leave her alone!” Marco shouted angrily. The officer was wrapping his arm around Ophiuchus’s waist, pulling her against himself, and there were a trio of other officers standing nearby, grinning and watching.
Marco threw himself back at the officer, only to be punched in the jaw as the man moved with surprising speed and hit him.
Marco shook his head clear as he heard the laughter of the other army officers. He looked up and saw that Ophiuchus was weakening as she remained separated from his hand. She was growing older, graying, thinning, and shrinking.
The man who had wanted to dance with her also noticed, and shouted in alarm, hurling her to the floor and backing away from her.
“A witch! She’s a witch!” he shouted.
Marco rose to his feet and pulled his sword free, causing the three bystanding officers to pull their weapons out as well. Marco charged at the man who had started the confrontation, and punched him firmly in the face with the hilt of his sword, knocking the man out, and giving Marco a clear path to stoop and grab Ophiuchus’s hand with his golden one. She sighed in relief, and began to revive immediately.
“Here, take the sword,” Marco handed the sword to her, the weapon in which she had deposited a portion of her own powers on his behalf, allowing her to maintain her strength while separated from him. He turned and faced the trio of angry officers, making his hand glow brightly as he tried to devise a suitable way to end the confrontation.
“Magic! He’s a sorcerer!” one of the men shouted loudly as he saw the glow of Marco’s hand.
“Let any weapon used against us cause harm to its own user!” Marco shouted, remembering the curse he had used in Clovis to protect himself and his friends. He focused his mind on the memory of the arrows that had reversed course in the air to strike their archers, and he imagined swinging swords that flipped around to slice their wielders.
“Careful, careful lads. Wait for our sorcerer to arrive to handle this,” a voice shouted from the dining room.
“Get Iasco and let’s get going!” Ophiuchus told Marco. She was fully restored to her old stature and stood directly behind him. “We have to escape quickly.”
Together, the two of them sidestepped over to the wall where Iasco’s wagon was sitting. Marco bent and picked up the bundle of cloth off the wagon, then looked around. There was a door in the wall behind them; he nodded his head in that direction, and saw Ophiuchus’s nod of agreement. The two of them started running towards the door, but just before they reached it there was a sizzling sound in the air over their head, and a bolt of energy struck the wall in front of them, causing an avalanche of stone and mortar and wooden beams to collapse down in front of them, blocking the exit from the room.
Against a background of dust and screams, Marco turned to see what had happened. Standing in the middle of the dance floor was a tall man wearing a flowing black robe, a sorcerer.
“That was a clever curse you cast, youngster. It froze the arms of these common soldiers,” the sorcerer commented. “And so I hear claims that we have a sorcerer and a witch at loose in the city; I thought we’d scoured the streets pretty well to get rid of such riffraff when we took over management of the place. And that means that you must be new arrivals, untested and unknown.
“So let’s commence a test!” he declared loudly, as he raised his hand and pointed it not at Marco, but at Ophiuchus. He shot a bolt of light at the female form.
Before Marco could react, the beam struck at Ophiuchus. The spirit held the sword that was endowed with her own powers, and used it to divert the beam’s intent. The red energy struck the beam and splattered away, shards and bits flying in all directions, as the sword itself glowed red with the energy it absorbed while protecting the woman who wielded it.
“How did you do that?” Marco gasped in astonishment.
“I am not without resources,” the spirit grinned at him. “Let us leave quickly.”
Marco looked at the sorcerer who was assaulting them; the man was gaping in astonishment at Ophiuchus. “You’re no witch! You’re a Power! We’re seeing an assault by one of the mighty, are we?
“Send for Iamblichus!” he shouted over his shoulder.
“Now, Marco, let’s go,” Ophiuchus called. She pointed to the pile of rubble, and Marco saw that though the doorway was blocked, the broken wall had a hole large enough for them to escape through. He climbed awkwardly up the uneven debris, and ducked through the hole, then jumped down to the floor of the undamaged hallway beyond.
Ophiuchus followed him into the hallway. “Come this way, Marco,” she called confidently.
“Where are we going?” Marco shouted as he carried Iasco through the hall and out into a garden behind the restaurant.
“There!” Ophiuchus pointed towards the Acropolis. “We need to find the Ploutoneion Cave,” she shouted.
“There’s a trail!” Marco pointed at the line of a path that angled up the sheer side of the Acropolis.
Ophiuchus ran in the direction of the foot of the trail, and they rushed past a pair of unprepared priestesses who guarded the entry to the trail.
“Where do you think you’re going?” a loud voice called from the sky. Marco looked up and saw a sorcerer on the top of the Acropolis step off into thin air and remain calmly in place as he observed the two fleeing figures panting up the path.
“I
n here, Marco!” Ophiuchus called, as she stepped into a cave opening in the side of the cliff. The opening had been shaped by men, its corners squared off, with an inscription carved into the stone above the dark space.
The sorcerer above began plummeting downward towards where the spirit and her follower were trying to escape.
“Protect us Marco!” Ophiuchus shouted.
Marco reached the cavern entrance, and placed Iasco’s body down, then raised his golden hand. He thought of the protective shield that he had seen Iasco’s brother raise to protect the Corsair raiders. He focused on his hand, and tried to image such a shield raised across the opening of the cavern, then he projected the thought outward through his hand.
The sorcerer who was chasing them, Iamblichus, Marco guessed, stopped his movement through the air, and floated directly in front of the cave. He grinned at Marco, and raised his hand, just as Marco’s shield flared forth from his own hand and sealed them away from harm. The sorcerer was uncomfortably close, and Marco could see his face clearly, a face that was coldly handsome, but full of an inhuman cruelty and pride. The face filled Marco with fear.
Iamblichus’s hand released a number of balls of black and red energy. They each struck the golden shield Marco had built, and exploded as they made contact. The floor of the cave shuddered.
“You’re trapped!” the sorcerer outside shouted gleefully. He looked down at apparent reinforcements who were climbing up the trail.
“There is no escape for you in that cavern, only death,” he said. “Tell me who you are and why you’ve come here. Cooperate, and I’ll make sure your death is quick and painless.”
“Come on, Marco,” Ophiuchus tugged on his shoulder.
“Are we going to die?” Marco asked, as he felt his shield start to disintegrate from the damaging energy that the sorcerer was throwing at it once again.
“We are not going to die, but we are going to go join the dead,” she told him gently, as he started to walk backwards with her.
“I’ve been among the dead before,” Marco answered. “It’s not pleasant.”
Scarlet From Gold (Book 3) Page 12
