by C. E. Murphy
She had not. Still sitting in the sand, Ghean clasped her coffee mug in loose hands, staring up at Methos’ act. Minyah laughed, and Methos shook the character off, unbending himself to stand at his full height. “You’re spilling your coffee,” he said gently to Ghean.
She flinched the mug upright. “Oh! Methos, that was — was that you?” With an uncertain frown, she climbed to her feet, setting her empty mug aside on the plate Ertros had brought.
“Of course it is.” Methos extended a hand towards her. “Come. You have a city to show me.”
The trek up the mountains took a little over three hours. Methos was met with mildly curious stares as he walked, and the Atlanteans with him by delighted greetings and hugs. “I believe you’ll have introduced me to the entire city by the time we reach the top,” he commented softly to Ghean, after they’d been stopped for the fourth or fifth time.
She laughed. “Just wait. I predict that in the next week our House will be flooded with visitors wanting to see my outland scholar.”
“I’m not that remarkable,” Methos protested.
“Scholars in Atlantis are nothing new. Scholars from outside are a rarity. You’ll be very popular. Close your eyes. The city is just over the next rise.” Ghean took his hand to lead him forward as Methos closed his eyes, lips quirking with mirth.
Perhaps two minutes later, as the land changed from an incline to a decline, Ghean stopped. “All right,” she decided. “You can open them now.” Methos did, looking first at Ghean. Her mouth curled in expectation as she watched him. Light from the setting sun gleamed red in her hair and warmed her skin. For a few moments he simply admired her, disregarding the images that were her backdrop. Then, because she was waiting, he looked up and beyond her, to the city.
Atlantis was the color of fire. Built of stone, it glowed like fading embers. The sun’s dying rays reflected in soft-edged shadows that blended the city’s edges into the mountains surrounding it. The road he stood on dropped sharply down to the gates. From his vantage, Methos could see the simple layout of the city, built around a central circle. Dominating the central circle was a temple, the roof a high dome that stood above any other buildings in the city. Streets webbed out from the temple circle. Without counting, Methos knew there would be thirteen major passageways, and innumerable smaller. The smaller streets fell in ever-widening circles, details lost to the setting sun. It was a city that had been planned, not one that grew up in a random pattern. The symmetry was awe-striking.
“Gods above,” Methos said quietly. “It’s … I’ve never seen anywhere like it, Ghean.” He glanced at the black mountain beneath his feet, and back at Atlantis. “The stone,” he half-asked. “It looks white.” He gestured at the walls, their true color returning as the light dimmed.
“Legend says that the gods came down to look at the city our fathers built, and they were pleased,” Ghean answered. “But it was not enough for the children of the gods, and so they struck it a thousand times with lightning. When the skies cleared, all the color had bleached from the stone, and so it has always been.”
Methos nodded slowly, looking over the city again. “How old is Atlantis, Minyah?”
“Older than you,” she replied, “and more enduring. Shall we go home?”
Chapter 12
“You’re very young to have studied so widely.” It was almost an accusation, from a scholar of Taurus. He was in his middle fifties, very slightly portly, and called Ragar. He also, very clearly, could not quite decide if he should be impressed with House Aries’ new acquisition or resentful of it.
Methos suppressed a sigh. I wonder what he would say if I told him the truth. He dismissed the thought, as he’d dismissed it thousands of times over the years. “I’ve tried to keep an open mind,” he said instead. “Studying a little about many things has served me well, given my habit of travelling. It seems more practical.”
Ghean’s prediction had not been in error. The past week, Methos had spoken in depth with more people than he usually did in a year, arguing history and interpretations and language changes. Most of it had been fascinating, extended scholarly discussions with stimulating intellects, and he dared imagine he’d made a few friends out of the constant throng of well-wishers and critical academics.
A significant portion of the visitors had come simply to see what oddity Ghean had brought home to marry. An alarming number of those returned later with their daughters. The daughters were evenly divided: either they refused to meet his eye, or Methos had to move constantly around the room to keep from being latched on to.
Ghean sat through each display placidly, to crawl into bed late each night and giggle about it. Methos couldn’t decided if he should be offended or relieved that the situation amused her. “What if I found one of them irresistible?” he demanded.
Ghean propped her chin on his shoulder, grinning. “I’d magnanimously allow you to wed your new beloved,” she said cheerfully. “Then I’d sneak into your house and kill you. Right in front of her. Then I’d cart your body off the island, marry you anyway, and hold it over your head for the rest of my life.”
“That’s not fair,” Methos said primly. A moment later, with admiration, he added, “You have a mean streak.”
Ghean’s grin turned smug. “I do. You’d best not find any of them irresistible, hm?”
“No one could ever be as intoxicating as you are,” Methos promised extravagantly, ducking his head to kiss her.
“No one in this lifetime, at least,” Ghean replied.
“You also have a morbid streak, wife.”
Ghean sniffed. “Not yet,” she corrected. “Three whole weeks until the ceremony.”
“Ah.” Methos lifted a finger. “But doesn’t Atlantean law provide that once the parents’ blessing has been given to a betrothal the couple are essentially consider wedded?”
Ghean nodded. “Mmmhmm. Unless something happens before the actual formal ceremony and they decide to not have the words said over them. Then neither is considered to have ever been married.” Her eyebrows went up. “Where did you learn so much about Atlantean law?”
“I spent some time at the library yesterday.”
“When? We had visitors from daybreak to dusk. Until past dark!”
“You had visitors,” he said. “I snuck out while you were planning the ceremony.” Methos grinned. “And here I was worried you’d be offended that I left.”
“I am,” Ghean said. “Terribly. You’ll have to make it up to me. Now.”
Methos became aware that Ragar had asked him a question and was waiting patiently for the answer. He blinked, shifting away the memories to search through what the man had been saying. “I’ve traveled ever since I can remember,” he replied. Technically, it was true. “Studying the places and people I came into contact with seemed natural. I was lucky enough to learn to write, so I could keep notes on my studies.”
Ragar shook his head. “How do you survive? Most people aren’t interested in histories. Most people don’t have enough history.” He clearly excluded Atlantis from that group.
Methos spread a hand in depreciation. “Nearly everyone loves history. They just call them stories. It’s how I survive, telling stories. Almost everyone is willing to offer a space by the fire and a bit of food in exchange for new stories, or even old ones. It’s — ” Methos broke off as goosebumps raised on his skin, prickles of caution alerting him to an approaching Immortal. His eyes on the door, he said, “Please excuse me? There’s someone coming I need to talk to.”
Ragar shot a startled look at the door. “Of course,” he said, puzzled. “Who — ” He, too, broke off, as a shadow appeared in the door. “You must have excellent hearing,” the mortal scholar said to Methos.
Methos twisted a small smile. “Yes,” he agreed. “We’ll talk more later, Ragar?”
Ragar nodded, stepping past the new arrival to make his way back down towards the city. Methos stood, examining the newcomer as he entered the room.
He was tall, nearly Methos’ own height, and judging from his coloring, no more of Atlantis than Methos himself was. Fine, narrow features were dominated by lively green eyes that added an animated attractiveness to a face that fell a little short of handsome. Light brown hair was held back in a long tail, falling past his shoulders. He wore the sword at his hip easily.
“Ah!” he proclaimed, and bowed extravagantly. “The great scholar Methos. At last, we meet.”
Methos’ eyebrows lifted, amused but not relaxed. “You have the advantage of me.”
The man straightened, stepping forward to offer a hand. “My name is Karem. I’m afraid I’m only a warrior, nothing to make a fuss about on this island of studies.”
Methos clasped Karem’s forearm briefly, then stepped back, still studying the man. “You’re the one I saw on the ship last week.”
“I am,” Karem agreed. “Rude of me to take so long to stop by and visit, but I’ve been busy. Do you realize this island is teeming with Immortals?”
Methos inadvertently glanced through the door, as if expecting an army of Immortals to stand there. “I haven’t sensed any since I’ve been here.”
Karem sat in a loose, fluid movement. “You wouldn’t have. They’re not like us. Somehow these people have discovered how to make artifacts of Immortality.”
Methos regarded the other man skeptically. “How?”
“I have no idea.” Karem shook his head. “It seems to be common knowledge, but not bandied about. Each of the Houses apparently has one of these artifacts. That means if they’re all in use, there are at least fifteen Immortals in this island, including you and me.”
“Seventeen,” Methos corrected. “A man and a girl, like us.” He sat down across from Karen, intrigued despite himself. “I’ve seen some of the wonders they’ve created. They’ve bred horned war-horses that are possibly the smartest animals I’ve ever seen. But Immortality artifacts?”
Karem nodded. “The horses are one of the Houses’ artifacts. The horns, when ground to a powder and drunk, are supposed to heal all wounds.” He waved a hand, continuing, “I was told about the artifacts by a man called Methuselah, years ago. He carried a stone, a giant crystal, and claimed to have been alive for nine hundred years. Can you imagine? A mortal, nine hundred years old? I tested him as best I could. If he wasn’t older than I am, he was a brilliant liar.”
Methos’ eyebrows crinkled curiously. “Where is he now?”
“The islanders said he got tired of living, and gave the stone to his grandson. The grandson’s apparently been down at the harbor for weeks, building a boat. He says the gods have told him a disaster is coming and the only way to survive is to sail away from it.”
Methos nodded, with a faint grin. “I see. It grants Immortality at the price of lunacy?”
Karem shrugged. “The old man seemed perfectly sane.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I want to learn how they’re made. You’re already an established scholar. They’ll be more receptive to you than me.” Karem leaned forward, green eyes bright and eager. “Can you imagine, Methos? The ability to grant Immortality to our loved ones? Never losing the people we care about?”
Thinking guiltily of Ghean, Methos murmured, “It’s not our decision to make.”
Karem spread his hands expressively. “Who better? We have experience at Immortality. We can pick and choose those who would be best suited for it and bestow it upon them.”
“A world full of Immortals,” Methos retorted. “Do their artifacts, if they work, prevent children? How long until the births so far outnumbered the deaths that there was nowhere to live? How would you feed everyone?”
“The world’s a big place, Methos! We wouldn’t have to worry about it for generations.”
Methos rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. “You sound like them,” he accused. “Thinking of now instead of forever. You could live forever, Karem. How long do you think they’d let you live if they realized you were born to live eternally, while they had to depend on trinkets and toys?”
“If I gave them the toys, why would they be anything but grateful to me for sparing them from death?”
Methos looked hard at Karem. “If you give it to them, then they know you can take it away again. Not even gods are sacrosanct, Karem. You’d be different from them, and men fear that which is different, and kill that which they fear. They’d kill you, and me, and any other Immortal like us they could find.”
So I’d choose my children carefully.” Karem leaned forward again, hands folded earnestly on the table in front of him. “It’s what they’d be to us, Methos. Think of it. Children of our own.”
“We can’t have children,” Methos said impatiently. “At best they’d be — disciples, students, acolytes, to whom we’d be mentors. And sooner or later, they’d turn on us.”
“Not if we kept how to make the artifacts a secret.”
Methos let out an explosive sigh. “Which gives you power over them, which they will resent, which will turn to fear and hatred, which will lead to your death, Karem! The pattern is the same, can’t you see that? Besides, what’s been discovered once will be discovered again. If your old man was telling the truth, Atlantis has had the secret of Immortality for nearly a thousand years, maybe more. They’ve kept it secret. Take heed from their counsel, Karem. Let it die. Let them die.”
Karem sat back, clearly unconvinced, yet unwilling to press the issue to a fight. “I’ll persuade you yet,” he said firmly, though there was humour in his eyes. “But I’ve no wish to quarrel with you. Are we still at peace?”
Methos nodded. “We are. Think abo … ” He trailed off, lifting his eyes to the door as the chill of warning came over him for the second time in the afternoon. Karem rose, dropping his hand non-too-subtly to his sword.
Seconds later, Aroz appeared in the doorframe, expression as wary as both Methos’ and Karem’s were. Methos relaxed slightly, gesturing to the Immortal he’d been speaking with. “Karem, this is Aroz, of House Aries. Aroz, this is Karem, an itinerant … troublemaker, I think.” Methos grinned apologetically as Karem shot him an amused, mock-offended glance.
Aroz looked over Karem with apparent disapproval. “A friend of yours?” he asked Methos.
Methos shrugged. “Time will tell. We’ve only just met. I doubt you’re here for my company, Aroz. What do you need?”
“Ghean is not here?”
Methos shook his head. “She went to the market when it became obvious I was going to spend the entire afternoon discussing history with Ragar. Wait a moment,” he added, as Aroz turned to leave. “You’ve been a part of Atlantean society a while. Did you know a man named Methuselah?”
Aroz stopped in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame. “He’s dead now.”
“But you knew him,” Karem interjected. “Tell Methos about his crystal, the Immortality stone.”
Aroz cast a look down the walkway towards the distant market and sighed heavily before coming back into the room to stand, wide-legged, arms crossed over his chest. “I met Methuselah when I was very young,” he admitted. “Nearly two hundred years ago.”
“Hah!” Karem barked, triumphant. “You see, Methos? They do have the gift of Immortality!”
Methos ignored Karem, frowning studiously at Aroz. “Why doesn’t everyone here have artifacts that extend their lives?”
“Don’t they?” Aroz came further into the room, to lean stiffly against a table. “What’s the average mortal lifespan, Methos?”
Methos waved his hand. “Thirty, thirty-five years, in this part of the world. A little longer, further north.”
“Atlanteans live an average of sixty.”
“Yes, I know. I assumed their lifestyle, their knowledge–”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t think they’re sitting on a well of spring water that lets them live forever, but they live twice as long as the rest of the world, and some of them do have objects that appear to protect them from death.”
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“How?” Methos shook his head.
Aroz split an ugly grin. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re right, and the gods did favor them.”
Methos made a face, shaking his head again. “Why only one for each House, then, if that’s how it works? Why not for everyone?”
Aroz lifted a thick shoulder and let it fall. “Legend says that the final artifact was hundreds of times more powerful than any of the others. That the gods poured far more into its creation than any of the others. There was nothing left to make smaller gifts with. Not even the twelve work equally.”
“How careless of the gods,” Methos murmured. “What was the final artifact?”
“A book.”
“A book?”
Aroz nodded. “That’s what they say. It was created and lost at the dawn of Atlantis’ history.”
“How can a book grant you Immortality?” Methos demanded. At the same time, Karem asked, “What was in it?”
Aroz spread his hands. “Who knows? The secrets of alchemy, science, House Aquarius’ secret recipe for bread. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t exist anymore.”
“What if the book explains how to make the artifacts?” Karem’s voice was eager.
“Then it’s better off lost,” Methos said, and stood. “Enough of us handle Immortality badly. Giving it to all mortals would be disastrous.”
“Who are you to make that decision?” Karem snapped.
Methos paused at the door to slip his sword-belt on, looking back at the other two. After a moment he stepped through the door, heading for the market, words lingering thin in the air behind him. “I am the oldest Immortal.”
Chapter 13
Moonlight’s hard shadows mixed with the softer, flickering edges of candlelight shadows. Methos sat with his head dropped, long fingers pressed against his temples and forehead. The papers spread over the table in front of him were written in Atlantean, recognizeable but painfully archaic. He hadn’t moved in four hours, other than turning pages and sipping coffee.
