To Live With Ancients (Ancient Atlantis Book 2)

by Sarah R. Silas

  She stared far off into what the South held and didn’t notice that Luxor had already taken a seat beside a lush rosebush, which miraculously had already sprouted big white flowers. This would not have happened in Kurlington, she thought. Perhaps it was magic?

  He patted the seat next to him, motioning for her to sit down. She obliged and sat down, noticing immediately that he smelled just like Cecil, that intoxicating aroma of salt and leather.

  “I’ve decided that you’re my way in,” he said. His velveteen voice washed over her and the knot inside her from the consecutive ruined nights suddenly wound tighter.

  “I’m sorry? Your way into what?” she asked.

  “My brother. Cecil. He’s gotten even worse and I’m afraid he won’t make a very good King if he continues this way,” he replied.

  “I see.”

  “No, I don’t think you do. I assume you’re relatively new to this whole thing.” He pointed around him casually, as if it wasn’t made of magic. She chuckled to herself, thinking how nice it must be to come from all this and it just be normal.

  “Why did Cecil leave?”

  Luxor hesitated. “I don’t think it’s my place to say. You and Cecil obviously share some sort of connection, or you wouldn’t be here. If he hasn’t told you everything there’s nothing I can do about that.”

  Juniper was taken aback. He’s supposed to be an asshole, she thought, remembering how he acted the other day. “You’re acting differently than yesterday,” she remarked.

  He chuckled. “We’re all different in different situations. Cecil and I have a long history. We’re brothers, you know,” he said, finally making eye contact with Juniper. His pale lavender eyes were different than Cecil’s but the feeling was the same. His intensity matched Cecil’s and it frightened her a little.

  “What did you need to talk to me about?”

  “I am not the head of the Expeditionary Guards, the way that Cecil used to be. And Manfred is the Guardsmaster and probably will be until the day he dies. However, under my control is the Royal Guard. After what happened to Augustus and my father, I need to be able to ensure Cecil’s safety without his continuous power plays.”

  “I see. What happened to Augustus and your father?”

  Again, Luxor hesitated. “It’s not my place to say. If Cecil wants to fill you in then, that is his prerogative.”

  “You’re making it hard to figure out how to confront him about this situation if you can’t even tell me why he’s come back.”

  “I know, I understand. But there are forces at play here that I’m not sure you will comprehend.”

  “Condescending, much?”

  Luxor’s face clouded and he dropped his gaze. “It may not look like it Madame Nesbitt, but I love my brother. I love him, not only because he’s the only brother I have left, but simply because he is my brother. Has he told you of Lavender and Starlight?”

  Juniper was surprised by Luxor’s confession. It was filled with the opposite emotion of what she had seen yesterday. “He hasn’t told me anything about that. What is it?”

  “Ask him about it. Ask him what it is that draws our ilk to the sea, ask him why we are the way we are.” Luxor nodded. “Perhaps you need to attend some business. I have another meeting to deal with.”

  It slowly dawned on her that she was being summarily dismissed and that Luxor was asking her to leave the gardens. She got up, nodded back at him, and quietly withdrew.

  From behind the bench, a helmet clad head popped up from the shrubs. “Now what?” the man asked, looking to Luxor.

  Luxor’s demeanor changed, his eyes perked up, and a broad devilish smile split from his face. “Brother is going to have to deal with that for the time being along with attending to his royal duties. Perhaps it’s time for us to have some fun, eh?” Luxor’s partner laughed and they both got up and left the gardens.

  The Magic Master

  “I’m sorry your highness, I cannot let you pass without an escort,” said a Guardsman who stood at the southern entrance to the palace. He stood in front of a small wooden side door that led straight into the crowded downtown of the City.

  “I do not need an escort Guardsman, please move out of my way,” said Cecil uneasily. He wasn’t in a mood to argue with anyone, let alone an uppity Guardsman looking for a promotion for refusing the heir. Cecil needed to see someone urgently. If the Guardsman wasn’t going to move out of the way, then he might have to move him out of the way. From the small satchel that Cecil carried at his side, he removed a dark black cloak and swung it around his shoulders. A simple lavender painted hexagon of metal with a rune inscribed in its center served as a clasp. “I believe this will suffice,” said Cecil, pointing to the rune.

  “Is that…?” asked the Guardsman, not understanding what the rune meant, but hoped it was something important.

  “This Guardsman, is the rune of concealment, and with it I may cross through this entire city completely unseen. Please tell Lord Manfred of this when you see him,” Cecil said extravagantly, like a magician explaining his act to an audience. Before the Guardsman could muster a reply and get over his awe, Cecil swung past him, through the wooden door and into the bustling city.

  One of the City’s many clock towers had just struck noon and the city was at its busiest, bustling vendors and walkers, tens of thousands of Atlanteans thronged the streets trying to complete their affairs. Cecil chuckled slightly to himself, his face hidden beneath the black hood, at the thought of there truly being a rune of concealment. The rune within the hexagon was simply one of good hope or possibly a good harvest, he couldn’t remember. Not that it mattered, a lot more than a single rune was needed for any true magic to occur these days. Desperation, he reminded himself, was the key to his own magical ability.

  Cecil had been hoping that he would be able to sneak past the guard, as having an escort would have made his reunion with the city a little less nostalgic. He wound his way through the old cobbled streets, looking up momentarily to stare at the deep dark abyss of the water above them, much like he had in his teens. Back then, all he had ever wanted was to leave the city and experience what was above the water, what was going on above the waves, and to find his own life up there, away from all the mess down at the bottom of the sea.

  Atlantis was old, clearly. How old was always a topic up for debate. The only person who knew was the Archivist, and for her to tell you her secrets you’d have to catch her completely off guard, which was never going to happen. But Cecil had tried. Growing up, he used to walk into the Archives on a daily basis, trying to posit as many questions as he could to the reclusive librarian. Each time she rebuffed him, reminding him that her matters were private and the safety of the realm was always at stake. He remembered a few visits fondly, if only because the Archivist had finally relented and taught him how to harness small pieces of his own magical ability, but always only in the most extreme and dire of cases. For which he was grateful, because without it Juniper would not be alive.

  His feet remembered each missing stone, still missing from his youth, each upraised step, still upraised after all these years and remembered the many times he had tripped over those spots. He even remembered some of the old shop fronts. As much as Atlantis changed, very little actually did. Sometimes functional was sufficient. The old alleyways and boulevards gave way to open squares and communal spaces, but Cecil didn’t linger long. He was headed for the Old Quarter, where the mustiest of men and most curmudgeonly of women sat and peddled their wares or their skills. He was going to find Lord Rylos, the reclusive old Magic Master. He had several pointed questions to ask him.

  Alabaster Row held some of his favorite spots for lunch. He remembered sneaking out of school with his friends. He looked nostalgically at the times past, remembering the days he sat under the same tattered awnings, eating sandwiches and hesitantly talking to the pretty girls on the other side of the counter. The counter girls were still pretty, but clearly more than several generations younger tha
n Cecil. Nostalgia, while nice, made him feel even older than he already was.

  He kept winding his way through old haunts, remembering the good times, and the bad, until he finally found himself crossing a stone bridge over a small stream, and into the old part of the city.

  The air shifted scent. Instead of a mixture of bread and body, the Old Quarter smelled of musty pages and damp. There were no stores or communal areas in the Old Quarter, just densely packed buildings and homes, hastily topping one another, reaching as far as they could towards the magical bubble above them. Some of the first buildings that Cecil crossed were hastily built stone edifices, but as he progressively moved farther and farther into the Quarter, the buildings became more elaborate, mansions stretched entire blocks, gold topped spires reached for the abyss above ready to poke a hole into the bubble, and even horses stood at the ready to ferry the residents to their destinations. The Old Quarter reeked of nobility, and a nobility that had refused to move or change since the very earliest days of the city. A nobility, Cecil hoped, that would join in his rein for the city’s future.

  He finally came to a winged, scowling, grey gargoyle that guarded an iron wrought door. Before he could open it another hooded figure swung the door inward and quickly exited, bumping into him.

  “I’m sorry, excuse my error,” she said, peering from beneath her cloak and into his.

  “It’s not a prob—” Cecil stopped mid sentence, as he recognized her voice. “Marabella?” he whispered, sure and unsure, his heart leaping into his throat.

  Marabella delicately folded down her hood as Cecil did the same. Their lavender eyes met and both instantly felt a long withheld and guarded connection between them ignite. The air fizzled with the electricity of their two paths and pasts once again meeting, at the seemingly most unlikely of places. “Cecil,” she muttered. She didn’t bother using his official designation, there was no rank, no ceremony between them.

  “It’s been a long time,” he said, his voice barely above a murmur, as if anyone hearing their pleasantries would be ashamed.

  “I’ve been,” she coughed, “I’ve been down here. Where have you been?” Her pale eyes complimented his bright ones, but both held the same emotion, a deep and utter longing that they could read on each other’s faces.

  “Up there.”

  “Ah. Did it get lonely up there?” She was breathless and nervous, a feeling that she wasn’t used to feeling. A feeling that she felt held weakness. In this encounter which she had hoped would never come was the wrong time to feel weakness.

  “Somewhat,” he murmured. Did she know about Juniper, he thought. If she did, then what’s the point of that question? His head spun at the thought of his two worlds finally colliding, a different sort of collision than him just bringing Juniper to the city. If Marabella knew of her then, well, then that was that. He couldn’t think of anything else.

  “I heard about your friend. Is she your friend?” asked Marabella softly.

  Cecil’s heart and head sank into a puddle of emotions and despair. He didn’t really know what he felt for Juniper, and he probably shouldn’t have let her come down here, but in that moment when she was drowning in the ocean that was his, he couldn’t let her go. Not like Marabella, he had let her go, willingly and forcefully, to find his own path above the waves. “Have you met her?” he asked. It was the only question his mind could put together.

  “Yes. She seems nice enough. She seems to be your pet, though.”

  The old fire within him raged suddenly. He didn’t know if he wanted to kiss Marabella or scoff at her for that comment. That familiar confusion between love and hate sparked in his mind, a veritable wildfire of emotion and longing in his heart. He held himself back. “Did you get married?”

  “No.”

  His heart rose a step. Had she been waiting for him? “I’ve missed you,” he replied.

  Marabella then averted her eyes, unsure of how to continue. “The Master is in his study. I had best be going. Please convey my well wishes to your mother and brother.” With a swish of her elegant cloak she walked away, quickly pushing her hood over her head and masking her beautiful features. She left Cecil standing there speechless, much like he remembered leaving her, as he had run away in the middle of the night to the land above the abyss. Except this time neither of them were betrothed.

  Cecil sighed and pushed it out of his mind. He had come here for a specific task and he had best see it done. He walked through the steel doors and into the Magic Master’s mansion.

  There had been a butler, Cecil remembered, but as he stepped into the musty home with its tile floor and carved stone staircase, he could find no one to greet him. He tried to figure out which way led to the Master’s study by memory. He wound his way through the halls of the ancient mansion, looking up at crude paintings clearly painted before the dawn of time on one side of the hallway, and on the other the clearly newer and more anatomically accurate works. The Master had always loved ancient art, but in Cecil’s absence he had found his love for newer Atlantean art as well.

  The hallways twisted precariously, bending as if by their own will, leading whomever was looking for the Master deeper and deeper into a maze of rooms and off shooting hallways. At the end of the main hallway, Cecil found himself facing a pair of lavender painted wooden doors, easily three times his height. Hesitating and unsure of protocol, he decided to knock.

  “Enter,” came the wizened voice of the Magic Master from within. His voice cracked and wheezed as if it were on the cusp of a cough.

  Cecil pushed the left door open and sidled into the room. It was filled from floor to ceiling with bookshelves. On the right hand side the books were dusty but easily accessible. On the left hand side however, a wire netting ran over the bookshelf limiting access. Knowing the Magic Master, thought Cecil, this was for his curious apprentices. With the flick of his fingers perhaps the Magic Master could make the wire netting disappear. Or worse, wrap around its victim in a stranglehold of death.

  The Magic Master was wrapped in a thick woolen cloak, a few other layers peaked out from underneath his collar. A large fire roared in a monstrous brick fireplace behind him. A cauldron bubbled ominously inside it. The Magic Master looked up, frowned, grabbed a pair of thin wire spectacles, put them delicately on the bridge of his nose, and then looked at Cecil. “The Heir Apparent. I was wondering when you’d come to see me,” the Master croaked. His hair grew in one single tuft at the very top of his head.

  “I come to see all important men in the City,” said Cecil, trying to sound sincere and jovial at the same time.

  “Only after your brother was taken from us, have you resumed your duties to this city. Do you return a new man?”

  Cecil found it hard to tell if the Magic Master was angry at him. Close behind the Archivist, the Magic Master was the last person you wanted on your bad side. “I have returned alive and well. The rest, only time will tell. I am ready to resume my duties to the city and its people,” he said.

  The Magic Master chuckled, a deep throaty sound filled with phlegm and aging internal organs. “Do not lie to me.” He slowly got up from his chair and put one gnarled hand on his desk, then the other, and leaned towards Cecil. “You are the heir apparent. I do not serve you. When you are crowned, you may come back and ask me whatever you will. Until then, be gone!”

  A drop of spit had flown across the room with the intensity of the Magic Master’s last words and had hit Cecil on the cheek. He hastily wiped it away. “I have but one question, if you would be so kind.”

  “I do not care for your questions. You are not the King. I do not answer to you. You are but a boy pretending to know what he’s doing.”

  “But—“

  “And as such, I offer you two pieces of advice.” The Magic Master held up one hand, palm forward, veins curling around the back of his hand like angry snakes. “First, send the girl home, back where she belongs. Your Juniper was a woman of the land, not a woman of the abyss.”

&nbs
p; Cecil was taken aback, but he knew better than to interrupt the Magic Master.

  “And second young heir. Go and find the Seer, in whatever hidey-hole she has placed herself these days. Go find her. Ask her your questions. Or better, close your unwise mouth and listen to her. Now! Be gone!”

  The Master sat back into his chair and resumed his work, snapping the spectacles from his face and letting them crash into a pile of powdered roots with an audible poof.

  Cecil’s father had taken him to see the Magic Master when he was younger and each time the Magic Master was cordial, but always ended the conversation or meeting on his own terms, with a finality that could not be questioned. Remembering this, Cecil decided it was best to return home, not only to ponder the Magic Master’s advice, but wonder if he was even supposed to be down here at all.

  Perhaps, he thought, he should have stayed above the abyss.

  A Church of Atlantis

  Juniper had been wandering the palace for hours trying to figure out which way her chambers were. She had tried to ask a few of the Guardsman she found stationed outside doorways or walking the halls. Either they had decided they no longer spoke English or they were just rude. She hoped it was the former, because the latter meant that she was going to have a harder time fitting into the palace scene than she had previously thought.

  She wandered through multiple wings of the palace, each with its own architectural significance, mosaic floors or tiles, paintings or frescos, ceiling murals or just moulding, wondering where exactly she would find something that was truly Atlantean, rather than just an amalgam of things she could see above the water.