Scarlet From Gold (Book 3)

by Jeffrey Quyle

  “Now, just one last ingredient, and it should be activated,” Marco said, holding the flowers above the bowl. “Watch this,” he said, anticipating the reaction that was about to occur. He began to twist and squeeze the small yellow flowers; within moments, a steady rain of tiny red seeds splattered onto the surface of the potion, and sank within the mixture, disappearing from view.

  Marco jumped back, and waited.

  Nothing happened.

  Marco stepped closer to the mixture, and shook the flowers at the bowl, making a few random seeds fly into the mixture.

  “What’s happening, Marco?” Iasco asked.

  “He got it wrong,” Mitment said. “He dragged us all the way here and put us through all this drama, and then he couldn’t even produce what he promised.

  “But this was it, ‘the scarlet squeezed from gold’,” Marco protested. “That’s the final ingredient the formula calls for. It must be these red seeds.”

  Mitment’s facial expression changed.

  Cut your hand open!” she said loudly.

  “Mitment, we won’t harm the boy because of this,” Iasco protested.

  “We should, but we won’t for now,” the guard answered. “But his hand – his blood – scarlet squeezed from gold – the gold of his hand. If he bleeds from the golden hand, the red blood will be scarlet squeezed from gold!” she shouted.

  Marco grabbed his sword without hesitation, his hopes resurrected by Mitment’s suggestion, and he sliced the palm of his right hand, then dropped the sword and squeezed his right hand with his left as he held the open palm over the bowl of liquid. A steady shower of blood dripped downward, and as soon as it struck the surface of the bowl, there was an unearthly screaming sound that was produced all around them, while the liquid in the bowl began to expand, becoming neither liquid not gas, but something between.

  “Marco!” Iasco said, her eyes wide. “I feel something happening!”

  Marco stooped down and picked up the bowl, feeling the expanding contents touch his flesh with a grasping, greedy texture that made him want to scream, but he turned and poured the growing mass along the length of Iasco’s body, then poured the last dregs of the bowl upon her face, into her mouth.

  The spirit screamed, and suddenly moved against its will, scooting across the surface of the cavern floor like a toy on a string being pulled by a child. The body began to turn warm colors, red and yellow, and moisture flowed back into the dry flesh, making it regain a healthy appearance. The stab wounds, and other, smaller injuries, healed themselves, and within moments, the body looked like it belonged to a woman in the prime of life.

  Just as it reached that point, Iasco’s spirit was drawn down into it.

  There was a clap of thunder, and a flash of lightening in the underworld chamber, and then the two separated entities – body and soul – were one together once again. The eyes fluttered open, and Iasco looked up at Marco, who was staring down in astonishment.

  “What’s the matter? Haven’t you ever seen a naked woman before?” she asked.

  Chapter 14 – Departure from the Underworld

  “Oh my Lord and Savior! This is incredible!” Iasco said as she sat upright. “Did you bring any clothes for me?” she asked.

  Marco continued to simply stare at her in astonishment, as his head barely shook a negative response. He had truly done the impossible – he had achieved possibly the most challenging accomplishment that alchemy could aspire to.

  “Here,” Iasco said. She grabbed Marco and squeezed him tight in a hug that was an assertion of her return to life, a long, drawn-out embrace in which she pressed her renewed physical presence against Marco, a tangible bit of evidence that his efforts had succeeded. And then she pulled his face to hers and gave him the kiss she had threatened to give. It was only a momentary peck, yet Marco had a brief taste of her essence, a fresh, evergreen sensation that was both taste and smell and indescribably vibrant.

  Marco wrapped his own arms around Iasco – tentatively for the first few moments, then tightly. He was astonished, overwhelmed with the reality of the situation. Something that had been a goal, a theoretical outcome, had actually come to pass. And what had once been a corpse was now once again a living, breathing human being.

  “I didn’t bring a dress,” Marco answered at last.

  “My stars!” Mitment finally gasped. “My lady! You are flesh and blood again!

  “Marco, you have done something that I never believed was possible,” she came as close to praising Marco as she was able.

  “We can make do for the time being with the fabric that you carried my body in,” Iasco said as she continued to hold Marco in her tight grasp.

  She released the hug at last, then looked over at Mitment. “Would you ever have believed it? This is a sign; we will not only fight the great battle that is to come, but we are going to win!” she exulted.

  “I wish that I could be there again with you, my lady,” Mitment said. “I don’t know what battle you face, but I would give my life – again! – to be there to fight for you.”

  “Mitment, if I can take you with me, I will!” Iasco declared. “If I have you and Marco by my side, how can we possibly lose this battle?”

  “How would that be possible, my lady?” Mitment asked, with hope in her eyes, as she looked from the lady to Marco.

  “We’ll see, Mitment,” Iasco answered vaguely.

  She stalked over to the fabric that Marco had slit open. “Give me your sword, Golden Hand,” she said to Marco.

  “That was the name the spirits called me!” Marco exclaimed, as he stepped over and handed his weapon to the newly revived lady.

  “It is how history will remember you,” Iasco told him as she cut three holes in the fabric, a neck hole and two arm holes. “I might have wished that you hadn’t been so enthusiastic in your work earlier,” she said as she slipped the bag over her head, the gaping slit in the front revealing a great deal of her torso. “But we’ll adapt,” she said.

  She pointed at Marco’s pants, lying on the ground still damp with the torturous water that had been spilled upon them. A beam of red energy issued from her finger and struck the pants, making a cloud of steam rise up.

  “There, you may put them on now,” Iasco told Marco. “They’re dry.”

  “How do you propose we return to the land of the living?” she asked. “What are our options?”

  “I’ve used three entries,” Marco reflected. “The way that passes through the Echidna’s lair comes out on Arima. I don’t think we want to go that way. “The way I came in to find you was through Persephone’s Gate. That way out leads through Athens, and your enemy’s soldiers control the city now, with sorcerers. And the last way out is through Station Island,” he recounted.

  “Which is in the middle of nowhere,” Mitment pointed out.

  “And they tend to be amazed at the notion of people returning from the land of the dead,” Marco added, recalling his own first arrival there.

  “It will be the best choice,” Iasco said. “We will go to Station Island, and arrange passage from there. We’ll need to return to the Isle of Ophiuchus, and then we’ll decide how we go on the offensive to protect our way of life.

  “You said you passed through Clovis, Marco?” she asked. “If only there were still an arch-king over the lands of the old empire, to unite us and wield an army on our behalf. Instead,” she motioned for Marco to pick up his belongings, “instead, we will have to fight them with stealth and cunning and a loose and unpredictable alliance, instead of power.”

  Marco gathered his scattered items together, and placed them all in his bag.

  “May I have a drink, Golden Hand?” Iasco asked.

  Marco gave a half grin, then held his finger in front of her mouth, and let her sip the refreshing spring water that seeped forth. “I’m not sure which hand better deserves to be considered golden at this moment,” Iasco said as she pulled her mouth away from Marco’s hand.

  “Now, let’s go t
alk to Charon about making our escape from here.”

  Iasco began walking along the river bank, towards the ferry landing, with Mitment and Marco following after. They reached the dock as Charon’s ferry glided to a stop beside it and disgorged its small crowd of passengers.

  “Well, I see our unusual visitor has returned for some reason,” the ferryman said as he looked past Iasco to Marco.

  “We need to leave,” Iasco spoke immediately. “We have obligations among the living, duties that the powers have laid upon us.”

  “The duties of the living are of no concern down here,” Charon answered. “I merely provide a means for the dead to come to the underworld as they move towards their final destination.”

  “The duties of the living are of utmost importance to us though,” Iasco said. “Either take us across the river, or we will return through other means. And I want to take Mitment with me,” she added, drawing a gasp from Marco, and a cheer from the guard.

  “She may not go. There is no departure for the dead,” Charon answered firmly, then turned his back on them as he sent his boat back out across the waters of the river.

  “I thought that would be your answer. But I see a place for her at my side, and so I will make other arrangements,” Iasco said. She stepped back off the dock and motioned for Marco and Mitment to join her on the river bank, and they followed her without question as she strode purposefully away from the ferry dock.

  “Give me your hand, Golden Hand,” she commanded.

  Marco obediently lifted his right hand towards her, and watched as she grabbed it.

  He felt his hand tingle, and then it glowed beneath the small, slender fingers that held it.

  Iasco closed her eyes, and raised her other hand, then waved it in a sweeping arch outward, away from her body. At her feet, a wide ribbon of translucent substance arose from the ground at an angle, and arched upward, out over the river bank. It grew outward, stretching across and over the deadly waters of the river, then began to descend as it passed above the center of the river channel, and came to a halt on the far side of the river.

  “Let us go on,” Iasco released Marco’s hand and motioned towards the bridge.

  “That’s for us?” Marco asked. “Will it hold us?”

  “Yes, now move along; let’s go. You too, Mitment,” she added.

  “Me, my lady? I’m dead!” Mitment’s voice rose in shock.

  “I’ll find a place for you among the living, my friend. Your loyalty is beyond question, so I claim you as my personal bodyguard. Now, get moving,” Iasco motioned.

  “Stop all of you! This is forbidden!” Charon exclaimed. He moved his oar, and his boat veered from its path, to head towards the mystical bridge that Iasco had constructed.

  “Move quickly!” Iasco called, and the three of them started to run over the bridge. Charon raised his oar, and pointed it at the bridge. “Your passage is forbidden,” he said, and a black beam of energy emerged from the oar and struck the bridge. The structure shivered, and Marco lost his footing as he started to run down the slope towards the opposite side of the river. He rolled forward, and got back to his feet, as the bridge shivered again.

  “Keep going Marco!” Mitment shouted from behind him. He felt the bridge shake dramatically, and looking back over his shoulder he saw the center of the bridge start to crumble away.

  “Run Marco!” Mitment shouted, and Marco saw her stretch her hand out in front of her, reaching towards him. The thought of feeling the pain of her dead touch spurred him to run even faster somehow, and he accelerated his steps.

  The bridge underneath his feet started to collapse as he approached the shore, just behind Iasco. Sensing that disaster was about to overtake him, Marco jumped forward, grabbing the lady around her shoulders, and thrusting them to the shoreline, just as the bridge gave a loud cracking sound.

  Marco turned and saw Mitment standing upon a fragment of the bridge that somehow hung in the air while the structure on either side of it dissolved and collapsed downward into the water of the River Acheron.

  “Mitment!” he shouted, and extended his golden right hand towards the spirit. A rope of something solid shot out of his fingers and extended towards the guard, who leaped up and forward to grasp it just as her portion of the bridge melted away beneath her. She swung forward hand over hand for three motions, then flung herself to the shore, and tumbled into a heap at Marco’s feet, as he allowed the beam of energy to disband.

  “Well done Golden Hand. Thank you for saving the girl,” Iasco spoke from behind his shoulder.

  “Marco, thank you,” Mitment said as she stood up. “You saved me, and I will not forget.”

  Marco wasn’t sure how he had managed to help the spirit. He had wanted to help her, but had no idea that the gesture of his hand alone would cause something to happen.

  “Let’s move on, shall we?” Iasco asked, and they walked back down the river bank to meet the road that brought the spirits from the world of the living to Charon’s dock. The ferryman stood and glared at them as they passed the waiting spirits.

  “He’s not going to forget this,” Mitment said quietly as they hurried past and out of Charon’s sight. They journeyed up the cavern that Marco and Mitment had traveled before when Marco had left the land of the living the first time. They stopped once to snack on some of the food in Marco’s pack, and they took turns sucking water from his finger, then moved on again.

  They reached the surface at night, coming up to the cave opening when it was dark at the monastery of Saint Joseph on Station Island. They did not know how close they were to the end of their underworld journey until they suddenly smelled salt air and felt a breeze stirring against them.

  “Should I really do this?” Mitment asked, stopping a few feet below the opening of the cavern.

  “You will suffer no harm, and I will appreciate having you with me, as someone who I can trust,” Iasco reassured the guard.

  “Then I do it for you, my lady,” Mitment said, and they proceeded to climb the last few feet upward, and returned to the world of the living.

  “Would you look at that!” a voice exclaimed, and Marco saw that there was a small handful of monks praying around the perimeter of the stone wall that circled the cave entrance.

  “Oh, to see the star light again!” Iasco said, as she stood on one side of Marco and looked up at the sky, while Mitment stood on his other side. “It’s quite a sight, isn’t it Mitment?” she turned to look at the guard.

  “Where is she?” Iasco asked a moment later. Marco looked at Iasco, then looked at Mitment, then looked back at Iasco in confusion.

  “Where did Mitment go, Golden Hand?” Iasco looked up at Marco, with a look of concern on her face.

  “Where did you two come from?” one of the monks asked.

  “She’s,” Marco looked at Iasco, then looked at Mitment, in whose face he saw the same concern and confusion he felt. “She’s right here, next to me,” he motioned.

  “I don’t see her,” Iasco’s eyes widened.

  “Oh no, my lady,” Mitment softly groaned.

  “You two need to come out of there right now,” a voice called from a slight distance, as a monk approached from the dining hall.

  Marco recognized the man, Brother Patric, who had been so kind to him when he had last been on the island, his memories gone at the time. But he was more concerned about Mitment’s suddenly invisibility than anything else.

  “I see her right here,” Marco spoke. “She’s right beside me.”

  “I’m a spirit of the dead, back in the land of the living. I’m a ghost, and no one can see me or hear me,” Mitment exclaimed slowly.

  “She’s become a ghost, and I can’t see her,” Iasco arrived at the same conclusion at the same time.

  “Why can I see her?” Marco asked.

  “Would you please come out of there and explain yourselves?” Brother Patric was at the wall, holding a lantern up high.

  “Marco? Is that you? Again?”
Patric asked.

  “Brother,” Marco said, holding Iasco’s hand to help her cross the wall, as she held her slitted impromptu dress closed with one hand.

  “Maybe I should just go back down to the underworld again,” Mitment said, hanging back.

  “No, Mitment, wait,” Marco answered her immediately.

  “What’s she saying Marco?” Iasco asked.

  “She thinks she should go back to the underworld,” Marco told the lady.

  “Marco, what’s going on?” Patric asked.

  “Mitment, come with us, at least for now,” Marco said, as he climbed over the wall. “Brother Patric, this is the Lady Iasco, leader of the Temple of Ophiuchus. She and I have traveled through the underworld and have returned now to the world of the living,” he turned to tell the monk and the others who were with him.

  “Are you dead?” someone asked.

  “No, we’re very much alive,” Marco answered.

  “How did you get down there?” someone asked, as they started to walk towards the hall.

  “Is she coming with us? Why can you see her but I can’t?” Iasco asked.

  “She’s coming with us,” Marco assured the lady as he looked over at Mitment nearby.

  “Who are you talking about?” Patric asked.

  “Let’s get inside, please, and then we can talk,” Marco felt hemmed in by the questions that seemed to be coming at him from all sides as they reached the building.

  A monk held the door open, and they stepped into a hallway that Marco recognized. “How long ago was I here before – three months?” he asked.

  “About that,” Patric agreed, and he showed them to a room where the three travelers were joined by two monks.

  “What have you done?” Patric’s companion asked when the door was closed behind them.

  Marco looked at Iasco, not sure how to explain the long, complicated and unbelievable series of events.

  “The Lady Iasco is the chief priestess of the Cult of Ophiuchus,” Marco began. “She was murdered by assassins, and went to the underworld. I was sent by the spirit of Ophiuchus down to revive her and bring her back, so that she could lead the fight of good against evil.”