Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Melissa Scott

  "If it is your wish," Tchatcha-em-ânkh said, "then I will use what small influence I have with the powers of the lake to assist, if I am able."

  The king turned to watch, not the old man, but the lake. The girl who had lost the ornament, despite her apparent desire to sulk, clanked over as well. All of the girls turned, so Rebecca felt, at last, it was safe to surreptitiously observe

  Tchatcha-em-ânkh moved to the side of the boat and stood between the first girl, and the bench seat where the king had turned to observe. From beneath his white robe, the old man pulled free a golden scarab pendant that dangled from a strong chain. Beneath that pendant, a long, slender metal tube dangled. It shone in the sunlight, and appeared to be the case for a scroll, or a printed spell. Rebecca saw a glitter of red from the scarab, but could not see any details, as the man's back was to her.

  She heard a rattle of sound she was certain had come from the old man's throat, but it wasn't loud enough to hear clearly, or controlled enough to be words. She had heard of exercises used to train vocal cords to operate beyond normal capabilities – and she wondered if she'd just witnessed proof that such a practice had existed in Ancient Egypt.

  Then Tchatcha-em-ânkh began to speak, and the world shifted so quickly and completely that Rebecca nearly cried aloud in shock.

  The light from the sun, already bright, turned golden. The air, clear and heavy with a hint of the lake's moisture, thickened. It had a taste, but Rebecca could not place it. She turned her head and found the motion uncharacteristically difficult. Tchatcha-em-ânkh had turned as well, and he regarded her with interest.

  "Come to me," he said.

  Rebecca looked up and down the boat. All the others sat as still as stone, as if they were nothing more than a gallery of statues, and only she – and the old sorcerer – existed. With no other clear choice, she rose. Again, this was more difficult than she expected, the motion slower than it should have been. She crossed the boat, trying not to think of the fact she wore nothing but fishing nets. She met the old man's gaze.

  "Who are you?" he asked.

  "Rebecca," she said, without hesitation. "I am a seeker."

  He nodded, as if her words did not surprise him. He nodded toward the lake.

  "It is no small thing that the king has asked," he said. "To retrieve an item from the bottom of a deep lake – twelve cubits, if memory serves – would seem impossible."

  Rebecca held his gaze, and finally, he smiled.

  "Observe," he said. "And listen. I do not know you, but I sense your power. Listen, learn…do not forget a detail, because any lost word loses everything. I have long sensed that my secrets will be stolen, and corrupted. In you, I see clarity of thought. You must remember."

  Rebecca nodded.

  "Return to your seat," he said. "They must not know we have spoken."

  Tchatcha-em-ânkh turned away from her, and Rebecca hurried, as best she could in the thick, cloying air, to her seat. She gripped her oar, and as she did, the world tilted back. It was like the rush she'd felt on the downward slope of a roller coaster, and this time she did gasp, but none turned to see why. All eyes were fixed on Tchatcha-em-ânkh as he began to speak.

  Rebecca understood some of the words, but not all. She concentrated on inflection, and pronunciation. She memorized every tone, every sound and click of the tongue. Translation could come later. In magic, particular ritual magic, the vibration was the key. She concentrated so hard on getting it right, that she paid no attention to what was going on around her. It was only when the girl beside her dropped her oar and covered her mouth to suppress a scream that she glanced up. In that second, her mind nearly blanked.

  The water beside the boat had separated. One section, a perfect rectangle, had lifted to a height of at least ten feet above the surface, a thick wet column, and continued to rise as she watched. She could see fish within that segment of water, and the reflection of Tchatcha-em-ânkh and his amulet, glittering in the sunlight. Though the water rose, nothing dripped or poured from its surface. It might have been formed of panes of glass, or a massive chunk of crystal.

  Tchatcha-em-ânkh continued to speak, and Rebecca frantically repeated each intonation, each syllable. She had been trained to incredible feats of memory, but the power and energy crackling through the air stole her concentration.

  The slice of lake finally rose to a point where it's bottom edge cleared the surface. The sorcerer raised it yet another foot, and then, as if sliding it onto a shelf, he pushed it aside. Rebecca couldn't help herself; she half-rose from her seat and peered over the opposite edge of the boat. At the far end of the impossible slit in the water, she saw the bottom of the lake. It appeared dry as bone. Sand actually caught in the breeze, and swirled up to dance in the air.

  The king turned, saw her on her feet, and beckoned to one of the eunuchs.

  "Bring her to me. We will lower her down to fetch the bauble, and be on our way."

  He showed no awe, or even surprise, at Tchatcha-em-ânkh's magic. If anything, he was amused, and seeing the flicker of panic Rebecca had to fight down and control, his smile widened. She wondered if this entire spectacle had been engineered for no more important purpose than to entertain this slender, willful king.

  "There is nothing to fear," Senefru said. "You will be down, and then back in the boat within moments. You would not deny the will of your king?"

  Rebecca lowered her eyes, crossed the boat, and stood quietly at the old sorcerer's side. Tchatcha-em-ânkh did not glance at her, or at anyone. He seemed in a trance. His lips still moved, but no sound emerged that she could hear. Automatically, she ran through the sounds and intonations of his chant in her mind, once, twice, a third time, and she would have done so a fourth, except that the eunuch gripped her by her arm and shook her gently. She realized the king had spoken again.

  "I hope the heat has not been too much for you," he said.

  She shook her head.

  "Come, then," he said.

  A larger fishing net was lowered over the side of the boat, draping down the perfectly symmetrical wall of water. It unrolled like a rope ladder, and when the top-most edge had been secured to the side of the boat, the king gestured for Rebecca to climb down.

  "Don't take too long," he suggested. "Tchatcha-em-ânkh is very powerful, but who knows how long he can hold it? And there are insects – distractions. The king's smile widened yet again, and Rebecca stared down into the pit below and shuddered. She didn't want to appear hesitant, so she marshaled her courage, sat on the boat's edge, swung her legs over, and turned, gripping the rope of the net tightly As she bumped into the side of the craft, she was reminded once again of her nearly naked state. Her breasts pressed into the wood, and she felt the king's gaze as he watched, assessing her. She felt, very suddenly, as if she were being offered a test, and that what she did next, and how she did it, was important, though she had no idea in what way, or whether it would be important to herself, or the girl whose place she'd assumed in the vision.

  She descended as rapidly as possible. She watched, nervously, as the boat bobbed and floated above her. The side of the craft where the net was attached seemed dangerously close to the lip of the opening. She didn't know what would happen if the current, or a strong breeze, pushed the bow over that edge – but she knew she did not want to be at the bottom of the net, or worse yet, still descending it, if and when she found out.

  The climb seemed to take an eternity, though she knew it couldn't have been more than a few seconds. She dropped the last foot or so, expecting to sink into soft, muddy earth, despite the evidence of her own eyes, but it didn't happen. The ground was solid, and she turned quickly. There were plants she'd never seen. There was a tangle of branches wound round and round with some sort of thread. Just beyond it all, she caught a glitter of gold. She walked carefully around the branches, avoided a round stone jutting up from the earth, and bent to pick up the amulet. She felt the net slide from her hip as she bent, and she reached to hold it. There was
laughter from above, but it seemed to come from a very great distance.

  She picked up the jewelry, turned, and made her way back to the net. The laughter echoed from the walls of water to either side, and a wave of claustrophobia nearly paralyzed her. She'd been able to blank the danger from her mind while she concentrated on the amulet, but now that she had to get back up to the boat, the imminence of a watery grave stole her courage. She placed the amulet gently between her teeth, gripped the net, and began to climb.

  Above her, faces loomed, leaning over the edge of the boat, smiling and pointing and laughing with delight. Beside and a little behind the others, Tchatcha-em-ânkh still stood, arms upraised. She focused her attention on the old sorcerer, ignored the water and the laughter and the voices. She closed her eyes, just for a moment, and repeated the incantation a final time. She climbed, and when she reached the top, strong arms gripped her arms. Someone pulled the amulet from between her teeth.

  And then, Tchatcha-em-ânkh glanced down at her, and smiled. He spoke a single word, clear and distinct. He dropped his arms, and with a terrible roar, the huge rectangle of lake water dissolved. It poured over the edge and back into the pit, equalizing. The boat bucked and rocked, and Rebecca fell back. The last thing she saw was the old sorcerer's eyes. Then the lake closed in over her. The water filled her lungs, and she fought for her breath. She struggled, but the weight on her chest was immense; the thought of the huge block of water settling over her – merging with the lake – pressing her down – drove her to panic.

  She grasped at straws of memory. She fought to concentrate and, despite the inability to breathe, she mouthed the words of the incantation, now buried in her psyche. As she pushed the last word from her mind, the last air from her lungs – it was gone. All of it. The weight lifted. She was dry, and she came up, gasping for air and gripping her sheets, white-knuckled. She took in such a deep breath she cut off her own oxygen. For the second time in as many moments, darkness threatened to steal her consciousness.

  Then there was a loud splashing sound. Droplets of water flew from the bowl behind her to dampen her hair, and her neck. Her pillows were soaked. Regaining control, she turned and stared. The water in the bowl – what was left of it, was agitated. There were puddles and spills all around it, and Rebecca sat, clutching her sheets, neck craned painfully to gaze at the normally placid pool.

  So close. She had lain within her protections. The wards had been set. Nothing had been different, except – he'd seen her. The old man, Tchatcha-em-ânkh, had known her for what she was – known she did not belong. He had been with her in her vision, and so, she realized, he had been within the confines of her protection. It was something to consider in the future, and a blessing that she'd not run across a more malevolent power.

  All of this flickered through her mind, and at the same time, she paid it little attention. She visualized the bowl of water – imagined a chunk the size of a stick of butter being lifted free – imagined it dropping back to splash her, and her bed. The words of the incantation were fresh in her mind. She rose, walked the circle around her bed, waving her arm, as if dissipating smoke, and spoke the names of the Archangels in turn, reversing the order of the wards she'd set, until she felt the pressure in the room relax. She crossed the circle to her desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a leather-bound journal. She flipped it open, and with careful, even strokes, recorded the words as she'd memorized them. When possible she used the Egyptian, but when the words were not as expected, or unfamiliar, she recorded the phonetic equivalents with care. It took her nearly five minutes of deep concentration to get it down to her satisfaction. Then, reaching up to brush the long, dark hair from her eyes, she turned to her phone…frowned slightly, and reached out. Half a second before her fingers brushed the cool Bakelite of the antique phone's receiver – it rang.