The two monks looked at Marco, wide-eyed.
“Do you expect us to believe that? She rose from the dead to fight against evil? You personally resurrected her? This is preposterous!” Patric’s companion said.
“Fantastic as it sounds, it’s true. And we have brought another companion back from the dead as well, Mitment, a guard from the island of Ophiuchus, who Marco killed himself a year ago,” Iasco added.
“Where is she? Where is this other resurrected woman?” Patric asked.
“She wasn’t resurrected,” Marco spoke after a moment’s awkward hesitation. “She’s still just a spirit. She’s here in the room with us now though,” he added.
“How are we to believe all this nonsense?” the unnamed monk exclaimed. “Tell us the truth about how you came out of the cave!”
“Mitment, would you do something to prove your existence to these men?” Iasco asked. “Come lift this lamp,” she directed.
Marco watched as Mitment leaned into the table and picked up the lamp that sat in the center, then swung it in a small circle in the air, before setting it down.
“How do we know that you didn’t just use sorcery to make that happen?” the monk asked.
“Tell him to go to a different room and make a command, then come back here and I’ll do it,” Mitment said to Marco.
“Mitment says,” Marco repeated the suggestion, and watched as the monk got up and left the room, with the unseen spirit in pursuit.
Thirty seconds later he returned. “Did they stay here?” the monk asked Patric as he gestured towards the two guests.
Just then Mitment walked over to Patric and raised his hood up over his head.
“Holy Mother!” the monk swore. “That’s just what I asked the spirit to do!” He looked around the room wildly, trying to spot the invisible spirit.
“It’s true? You have a spirit from the underworld with you? It’s all true?” Patric asked.
“How is it that you know all this now, but the last time you were with us you didn’t remember anything?” he asked Marco.
“The last time I was in the underworld I drank from the fountain waters of the River Lethe, and forgot all. This time I didn’t,” Marco said easily.
Patric and the monk both sat down.
“Suppose all of this is true? What is this great evil you’ve come back to fight?” Patric asked Iasco.
“There is a kingdom far away, the land and the people called Docleatae,” Iasco began. “The king of the land is Moraca, and he is a powerful leader. He is obsessed,” she paused and looked at Marco speculatively, “He is obsessed with eternal life. He wants to never die.
“He has surrounded himself in his court with many powerful sorcerers and alchemists, and they do many things to keep him alive. They have for a long time,” she told her small group of listeners.
“Moraca is already over three hundred years old. For many years his power was held in check by his neighbor to the north, the kingdom of Prester John, but that kingdom fell to treachery and attack many years ago, and since then Moraca and the Docleatae have grown in power and strength,” she told the others in the room.
“His arm has grown long, and he now controls many other kingdoms, and has begun to build a great navy to go with the mighty armies he has. He is the power behind the Corsair raids that have grown so bold, and he is the power that conquered Athens,” she nodded to Marco.
“He has made a deal with the darkness itself,” Iasco told them. “As long as he continues to grow in malevolence and strength, the darkness will support him and lend its power to his sorcerers.”
“How long has the evil been helping him?” Patric asked in horrified fascination.
“The evil power fights an eternal battle in movements that occur over centuries, not days. The evil one has been behind Moraca for two hundred years or more,” Iasco answered. “He will not, of course, receive eternal life through evil, but he does not acknowledge that.
“If he were to find out what you have just done for me Marco, he would spare no effort, he would leave no stone unturned nor any city standing, to find you and capture you as his guarantee of returning to life,” she looked at Marco directly.
Marco felt his skin turn pale, and his throat grow tight at the thought of being hunted down by the forces of Moraca. He had faced the sorcerer in Athens, and he and the spirit Ophiuchus had run away from the power of that evil servant to Moraca. Marco had faced and nearly been killed by Iago, Iasco’s brother and also a sorcerer, who had likewise been a servant to Moraca. And Iago had led the Corsair raids in search of the Gorgon’s blood, one of the very ingredients that Marco had used to bring Iasco back to life.
“I’m afraid he does know,” Marco whispered. “Not about me specifically, perhaps, but he knows something about a formula to revive the dead, I’m sure. His Corsairs were looking for Gorgon’s blood; he must have some reason to want it.
“What are we going to do?” Marco asked, staring at Iasco.
“What can you do?” Patric echoed.
“We’re going to fight!” Iasco said. “Evil always wages these wars, and goodness always triumphs. We are going to lead the way for goodness to triumph again,” she said calmly.
“But how?” Mitment asked.
“Mitment wants to know how?” Marco conveyed the question.
“Oh Mitment my dear, I should have remembered you were part of the conversation,” Iasco said, “but I was too excited by what Marco had done to think straight. There must be a reason Marco can see you but I cannot.
“Marco, when you were in the underworld, did you and Mitment ever touch one another?” she asked.
Marco shuddered at the recollection of the pain of the dead spirit’s touch. “Yes,” he answered quietly.
“That touch must have given you the ability to see her, even here among the living,” Iasco explained. “I did not ever touch her spirit when I had my body restored, and so I have not developed the connection with her that you have.”
“That’s interesting, and it makes it all the better that I slapped you around, now doesn’t it?” Mitment told Marco. “But it doesn’t answer my question.”
“Mitment still wants to know how goodness is going to triumph,” Marco repeated.
“All in good time,” Iasco answered. “We’ll deal with that question later. More immediately, we need to arrange for our return to Ophiuchus as the first step.” She turned to the monks. “What ships are available to carry us?” she asked.
“The pilgrims’ ship will arrive tomorrow morning, and leave tomorrow afternoon,” Patric said. “It will be able to take you to Lacarona.”
“Good,” Iasco said. “How long will that journey take?”
“Three days,” Marco said promptly, recollecting the trip he had taken not many weeks prior.
“That’s it then. And we’ll need funds to hire horses and have provisions for the trip from Lacarona to Barcelon,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Funds?” the monk said in a warning growl.
“Certainly,” Iasco answered. “Time is of the essence. We must have horses to reach Barcelon quickly. There are many things that must be done, and it’s our responsibility to do so.”
The monk’s expression indicated a clear reluctance to assist, but Patric stepped in. “Our own funds are limited, but we can provide enough for you to ride to Compostela, and perhaps the cathedral officials will provide the rest of what you need?” he suggested.
With the arrangements agreed to, Marco and Iasco were shown their rooms for the night. “I’ll stay with you tonight,” Mitment commented as Marco stood before his open door.
His reaction was immediate. “What? Why me?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you stay with the Lady, to protect her?” he asked nervously.
“But you’re the only one who can see me or hear me,” she told him.
Mitment laughed a moment later. “Your expression is priceless! I’m going to go stay with the Lady, of course. Would you please tell her?”
Relieved, Marco immediately did inform Iasco of her guard’s intent. “Thank you, Golden Hand,” she said, then closed her door.
“Is that your name? I thought Patric said you were Marco,” the young novice monk who was their guide spoke to Marco.
“My name is Marco, but the Lady calls me that now,” Marco assured the boy, and he turned in for the night in his own plain room.
The following morning they were presented with a small bag of coins at breakfast, and shortly after noon they boarded the pilgrim’s ship to return to the mainland.
“I’m glad to leave the island,” Mitment told Marco. “I looked out the window all night and watched the spirits of the dead cross the courtyard to go down to the underworld. It’s sobering to know that so much death occurs so frequently.”
Chapter 15 – Crossing Iberia
After they landed in Lacarona, the three travelers spent an hour discussing how many horses they needed.
“Tell her I don’t need a horse!” Mitment spoke forcefully to Marco, who relayed the message, the same one he had relayed multiple times before, to Lady Iasco.
“Be that as it may, Golden Hand, tell our dear companion that we will have a third horse for this trip, just in case anything happens to one of ours, and I’ll expect her to ride it in the meantime,” Iasco said.
“Tell her it’s an absolute waste of money!” Mitment replied.
Marco looked around at the bystanders and passersby who were looking at the odd conversation the two visible people were having.
“Fine,” he told Iasco, “she says she’ll try it your way.”
“I did not!” shrieked Mitment, standing so close to Marco that he placed his finger in his ear. “Is this how it’s going to be?”
“Look,” Marco lowered his voice as Iasco went to the livery office. To the observers, he appeared to be whispering to the thin air, “We have to get going. You can run beside the horse, and the Lady will never know. Now let’s stop fighting and start moving.”
They were soon traveling along the road to Compostela, as Marco thought about Dex and Pivot and what they would have said about taking such a quick trip across the pilgrimage route. Of course, he told himself, this was no pilgrimage – they just happened to be on the pilgrim’s road.
He looked back over his shoulder at Mitment, who was riding atop the third horse of their group, as Lady Iasco rode her horse briskly in the front. Mitment – originally afoot – had managed to keep up with the other two for the first mile out of town, when traffic had inhibited the pace of their departure from the city. Once they rode free of the farmers’ carts and local pedestrians, Iasco had increased the pace, and Mitment had run faster and faster, then started to fall further and further behind. The guard spirit had refused to call out for a pause, but Marco took pity on her finally.
“My lady!” he called. “May we stop for just a moment so that I can adjust my saddle?”
“Now, climb up on your horse,” he said quietly to Mitment as she breathlessly arrived while he pretended to check the straps of his saddle. He watched as she wordlessly obeyed, making her horse skittish as she tried to mount it, until Marco finally walked over and held it in place.
“What was that about?” Iasco asked when Marco climbed atop his own horse.
“Just a quick stretch of the legs,” Marco answered without looking over at Mitment.
They journeyed for three days to reach Compostela, staying at places that had the mark of the swift for pilgrims when they were convenient. They even stayed in the village where Eric and Reba lived. Marco spotted them across the square, but avoided letting them see him; he didn’t want to risk becoming involved any further with the couple who he had bound together through his inadvertent use of his powers.
The next morning they rode into Compostela, and left their horses at a livery near the entrance to the cathedral.
“Let’s go find the authorities to discuss the issues at hand, and to gain some funds for the next stage of the trip,” Iasco said as they approached the gate.
“May I be excused to go in the cathedral to pray?” Marco asked.
“I suppose so Golden Hand, after I introduce you to the bishop,” Iasco replied as they entered the gates of the cathedral grounds.
“Marco!” Mitment called sharply.
Marco turned as he walked on, and saw Mitment standing outside the gate.
“I can’t enter. I can’t step onto the holy ground!” she shouted.
“Lady Iasco!” Marco called sharply. She turned to look at him, as he stopped walking forward with her.
“It’s Mitment; she can’t step into the cathedral grounds,” Marco explained.
“Oh, of course! Where is she? Take me back to her,” Iasco ordered, and they returned quickly.
“I’m so sorry, my dear! Of course I should have seen this coming,” Iasco said. “Please wait here for us. We shouldn’t be long.”
“What does this mean? Will I be able to even step onto the Isle of Ophiuchus?” Mitment asked.
Marco relayed the question to Iasco.
“Of course, certainly you’ll be allowed on the island,” Iasco said stoutly. “Now stay here; Marco, you go on to your prayers, and then I’ll meet you back here with Mitment,” she directed them all, and went on her way to the office of the bishop.
“Did she seem hesitant to you?” Mitment asked Marco, who had thought he detected some uncertainty in Iasco’s assertion.
“Let me go to the cathedral to pray to the Spirit of Ophiuchus,” Marco answered. “I’ll ask her to accept you.”
“You’ll come back soon, won’t you Marco?” Mitment asked, in a voice that sounded strained.
He turned and stepped up close to her, almost touching her, feeling compassion for the spirit who had no one else who could hear or see.
“I’ll be back soon, Mitment, I promise,” he said sincerely, drawing a shy smile from the ghost.
“Who are you talking to?” a passing merchant demanded of Marco, seeing him talking to the thin air before him. “Been drinking already?”
Marco blushed, then smiled as Mitment winked at him. He turned and walked into the cathedral grounds, then headed straight into the cathedral.
He knew where he wanted to go; he wanted to find the staircase marked with three violets. He wanted to climb the stairs again, and find the quiet corner of the cathedral where the Spirit Ophiuchus was portrayed. He wanted to pray to her, and to hear her voice again, to hear her speak to him. He had done what she had asked of him, incredible as it seemed, and he wanted desperately to confirm that she knew, and moreso, he hoped to hear praise from her lips, telling him that he had pleased her.
He went past the beginning of the pilgrimage stations, and walked resolutely down the length of the cathedral, cutting past the many pilgrims who were kneeling at each station in devout prayer. The cathedral was more crowded than it had been when he had visited it; the summer season brought many more pilgrims to visit the shrine.
He went around the corners and down the hallways, until he came to the area where he remembered finding the out-of-the-way staircase. There was no sign of the passage. He wandered far beyond where he knew it had been, then reversed course and came back. Marco went through a cross-passage, and returned from that exploration, again without finding the stairs.
At last he stopped searching, and knelt at the closest chapel, one where a violet marked the spot as part of the pilgrims’ route. A number of people were there already, but Marco took no notice as he knelt and began to pray to Ophiuchus, asking for direction to the staircase.
“You do not need those stairs to find me, Golden Hand,” the spirit’s voice spoke within his soul.
“”My Lady!” he exulted. He opened his eyes to look around, but there was no visible sign of the wonderful spirit, so he closed his eyes tightly as he recollected her image.
“You did well in the underworld, my champion, as I knew you would. You didn’t really need me to tell you that, did you? Wha
t is your real reason for this visit?” she asked.
“I miss you,” he said softly.
“I am with you, always,” she answered. “I am your sword and your heart. You know these things Marco, just as you know that I still rely upon you to help Lady Iasco. Her trials will come, and she will need your help, while I am no longer able to walk with you.
“Thank you for the dance, and thank you for the kiss, Marco dear,” the spirit told him.
“I have a favor to ask,” he spoke up quickly, to try to hide the palpitations his heart felt as he thought of the kiss he had shared with Ophiuchus.
“What favor?” she asked.
“Mitment’s spirit has come with us to the world of the living,” Marco explained.
“How remarkable!” Ophiuchus exclaimed.
“Will you allow her to land upon the isle and enter the holy places there?” he asked.
“Ah,” his former guide’s voice softly exclaimed inside his heart. “Now I understand.”
“She is here to help Lady Iasco, to help protect her,” Marco explained.
“Then she shall be allowed on the island. Is this what you want?” Ophiuchus asked.
“I do. She would be lost if she could not follow the lady,” Marco said.
“Is there anything else?” the spirit asked.
“Will all of this work?” Marco prayed plaintively. “Will the Lady really be able to defeat the enemy, this Moraca?”
“She will be able to, if she can rely upon you to help,” the spirit answered, “as I know I was able to rely upon you, dear Golden Hand. Now go and serve her,” the voice commanded, and then Marco knew that it was gone.
He rose to his knees as he opened his eyes, and looked around in amazement. All the people of the cathedral were going about their lives as though nothing had happened, as though a holy entity had not just been present, communing with him on that very spot.
He began to walk back towards the entrance, increasing his pace so that he strode rapidly, almost running, in his anxiety to be reunited with Mitment and Iasco. He would help Iasco in any way possible, he told himself, because the spirit of Ophiuchus had confirmed that he would be needed by her if she was to win the great battle that lay ahead.
Scarlet From Gold (Book 3) Page 16
