Adam of Albion (12 page)

“We
don’t know, do we? Besides, it’s not just curiosity—it’s her future. It’s all
our futures.”

Theodora
swept her hand out in a dismissive gesture. “Enough of your foolishness. Now go
to sleep. I have much to do, to fittingly welcome the Goddess.”

Artemis
jumped forward to the edge of her seat. “Oh, Theodora, please—can’t I see
Eurydice?”

“What?
Certainly not—none may see her but initiates.”

“But
that’s exactly what I want to be—an initiate. Like I told you, I’ve just never
had the chance.”

Theodora
sighed in exasperation—a sound that Artemis knew well. She got that reaction a
lot.

“Impossible,”
Theodora said. “It takes years of preparation, and finally an arduous test.
Many fail and few succeed.”

“I’ve
already done years of preparation—not the same kind as you, but I’ve learned
everything I possibly could about it all, and I’m quite resourceful in other
ways. Won’t you at least let me try?”

Theodora’s
face seemed to soften a little, but she still shook her head firmly.

“When
I said that many fail, child—that failure means they’re never seen again. I
like you, Artemis, brash little goose that you are. I won’t have your death on
my hands.”

“If
I’m going to die in this land anyway, better that way than any other I can
think of,” Artemis shot back.

Theodora
shook her head again, and stalked out the chamber door. Artemis jumped up and
ran after her.

“Put
yourself in my place, Theodora—won’t you?” she called hotly after the retreating
figure. “Suppose someone had refused to give
you
the chance?”

Theodora
paused, just for a second, but then walked on.

Artemis
hurried back to the couch, threw herself down, and began to cry, deep wrenching
sobs—first of frustration, and then of fear. 

She
closed her eyes and concentrated with all her might on sending a message to
Adam and Orpheus.
Find me—oh, find me, please.

The
Goddess—could
She
really have a hand in this? Theodora wondered
anxiously as she returned to her own chamber. The thought was frightening, as
if she was treading in a realm where no mortals—not even herself, the head of
the Sisters of Isis—belonged.

And
yet, what else could it be? It surely wasn’t coincidence that Artemis had
appeared here so mysteriously, at precisely this time—and that she knew the
great secret of the sacred ankh.

This
seemed to have all the signs of being the next chapter in a story that had
started during Theodora’s lonely childhood in Scotland. Farfetched though it
was, at least she had to think it through.

She
sat at her writing table, made of English oak and shipped to the Holy Land by
some Crusader’s wife who had never claimed it. It was one of a few personal
possessions that Theodora had carefully selected over the years, along with sculptures,
paintings, vessels, and rich rugs. The Sisters’ lifestyle was quite Spartan,
but they weren’t ascetics—they were women as much as they were warriors, and
they all kept special ornaments and mementos.

With
her hand shaking just slightly, she reached into a drawer that she rarely ever
opened, and took out a rolled parchment. The writing on it was her own—a copy
of a strange runic script, in the crude hand she’d used as a girl, before she’d
gotten any education.

Theodora
held it close and shut her eyes, remembering how it all had happened.

Her
mother had died when she was young, leaving her an only child. Her father was a
Scottish knight with a noble title but little land or wealth, who was usually
off at some war or another. She’d been raised by the few servants in their
cold, drafty, rundown old manor that was only called a castle because it was
the largest building for miles around and belonged to a laird. The misty,
desolate highlands were her playground.

It
was there that she’d found the ancient stone—a cromlech far taller than she
was, set upright in the earth—with its baffling runic inscription.

No
one seemed to have any idea what it meant, or to care. The only person she knew
who could read and write, just barely, was the priest in the nearby village. He
had forbidden her to get any learning—such things were not for women—and when
she’d asked him about the inscription, he’d told her angrily to stay away from
such ungodly pagan evil, and sentenced her to penance of bread and water, plus
a sound beating.

Of
course that had only inflamed her curiosity, and she’d snuck away whenever she
could to spend hours at the foot of the great stone, staring at the runes and
trying to unlock their secret—certain, with a girlish fantasy, that this was
the key to a magical life far from the dismal reality where she was trapped.

One
day when she was thirteen—just the same age as Artemis—she’d looked up to see a
figure approaching out of the mist, an older woman known as Jenny O’ The Moors,
because she wandered them incessantly. Jenny was gray-haired, neither young nor
old, and wore a cloak the color of the fields. There was talk that she was a
witch and the priest fumed against her, warning the local people to shun her.
But they went to her in secret for healing and love potions, and while her
appearance was stern and forbidding, she’d always been kindly to Theodora.
They’d crossed paths many times, but Jenny never spoke at any length—just a
greeting and a few words. But on this day she stopped.

The
Feast of Beltane was coming soon, she said. On that night, Theodora should slip
away from the castle and sleep here at the base of the stone. Perhaps her
questions would be answered. That was all—Jenny walked on as usual.

The
excited girl spent the next days in an agony of suspense—was it just the
ramblings of a crazy old woman, or did Jenny really know something? At last the
appointed night came. Toward midnight, long after the castle was asleep,
Theodora snuck out furtively with a blanket and a little food. She huddled up against
the stone, alone and frightened, with the chilly mist and the sharp highland
wind biting at her face. Sleep seemed impossible.

But
she must have dreamed—because sometime during those dark hours, the runes took
on a faint emerald glow.

And
this time, as she stared at them, they suddenly came clear in her mind.

In
head that speak, neath widow peak, the secret lies enclosed

A
touch the key, twill set it free, Her glory to behold

But
over the next days, her joy at the revelation faded—as the realization sank in
that she still didn’t have the slightest idea what the message actually meant.
Along with that came the fear that it was only another part of her fantasy,
made up by her imagination. Still, she clung to it stubbornly.

Soon
afterward, her father returned home—but only briefly, as usual, and this time
with alarming news. He intended to sell his meager holdings and journey to
Outremer—the Holy Land. The Second Crusade was over and the Third not yet
brewing. The Christian army still held the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and there was
a constant need for reinforcements. But the truly important thing was
opportunity. It was a rich, warm country where land and plunder could be taken
by the sword, and a knight could carve himself out an estate, wealth, and a
life undreamed of in the harsh clime of Scotland with its tightly controlled
fiefs. From the glow in his eyes as he spoke, she recognized even at her young
age an element of fantasy like her own.

He
had arranged to leave her in a convent but she begged to go with him, declaring
that she would wither away and die there. At first he refused, but while he was
a hard man, he had a heart, and she was his only child. The Holy Land was
relatively peaceful at that time, and the journey was relatively safe. Streams
of pilgrims flocked to Jerusalem, which had an established European community.
He relented, and booked her passage on a boat with other women who were
traveling to join their husbands.

Theodora
arrived safely. Her father, who had sailed ahead of her, did not. His ship was
lost in a storm, and he was never heard from again.

Her
own dream seemed every bit as doomed. She was young and alone, with no money
for the return passage and no home to go back to, anyway. She quickly learned
that a girl like her had only two options: to spend her life as a menial
servant in a wealthy household—or fall prey to the vicious scum who trafficked
in human flesh.

She
was perilously close to the second of those when fate intervened in the form of
a Hospitaller Knight named Cristof. He was not at all a gallant figure in
shining armor—he’d grown up even poorer than she had, and become a roughhewn
man aged beyond his years by hardship and battle. Perhaps because of that, he
was compassionate, especially toward the helpless—and he was one of the rare
men trusted by the Sisters of Isis. He’d wrested Theodora away from the
circling vultures and arranged for the Sisters to take her in. They had given
to her unsparingly, teaching her fighting, healing, and book learning. She had
excelled at everything, and now she was their leader.

And
she owed it all to Cristof.

Come
on, Theodora—haven’t you ever loved anyone like that?

She
brushed the thought aside hurriedly. She rarely allowed herself that kind of
sentiment, and there was no time for it now. Very important things were
happening, and they were all happening at once.

Living
with the Sisters, she had learned about the Goddess—and she’d come to believe
that she’d been touched by Her mysterious hand. Who else could have sent Jenny
O’ The Moors to her, and unveiled the message to her on that magical highlands
night? What else could
Her glory
refer to? The verse seemed to suggest
that it meant an actual object, but what could it be, what form did it take?
While she puzzled over it endlessly through the years, studied all the lore she
could find, she got no closer to any deeper understanding.

But
then, not long ago, a spy brought a rumor that the Grand Vizier had stolen a
head
that could speak
—and the puzzle began to crystallize.
Widow peak
could mean the hairline at the center of the forehead, she realized. A touch
would set free the secret:
Her glory.

Was
the Goddess’s unseen hand continuing to guide her life? Had it brought her to
the Holy Land and the Sisters of Isis, and finally to this miraculous
conjunction of circumstances where that glory was within her grasp?

Or
was it only her childish fantasy returning yet again, this time to shame a
grown, powerful woman?

She
learned that the Grand Vizier—a man as suspicious as he was cruel and
greedy—kept the head in the pommel of his saddle. Getting it away from him
would be next to impossible, but that was what Assassins excelled at. Theodora
had planned the attack, carefully orchestrating the Sisters and rehearsing her
own role. All would depend on a smokescreen of confusion, and even then, she
would only have a few seconds. The risk of failure, even of death for some or
all of them, was huge—and maybe for nothing.
Was
there really a glorious
object, the essence of the Goddess, inside the head?

But
then came the moment when she caught the pommel, found the head, and pressed
the hairline’s center—and the ankh popped into her hands.

If
Theodora was capable of swooning, she’d have fallen off her horse at that
instant.

She’d
closed the opening with another swift touch, popped the head back into the
pommel, and tossed it into the melee of knights to distract them from pursuit.
Praise to the Goddess, all the Sisters had gotten safely away.

Yet
another major worry came along soon. When she’d dared to take a glimpse of the
precious jewel—it seemed to be entirely ordinary. It was beautiful, yes—a rich
emerald green color, and made of an exquisite stone or metal that she’d never
seen. Still, there was no magical quality to it like she’d imagined—no glow or
emanation, no tingle through her hand.

But
the essence of the Goddess must be regarded with great reverence, she scolded
herself, not just hasty glances. With proper ceremony, She would reveal her
glory.

Or
could it be that somehow, Artemis held the answer? That the Goddess had
ordained the girl’s presence here, and the outcome depended on that?

Then
there was Artemis herself—full of wild imagination, headstrong, eager to rush
in like a fool where angels feared to tread. But smart, winsome, and eerily
perceptive.

Put
yourself in my place, Theodora—suppose someone had refused to give you the
chance.

Damn!
Theodora thought. It was another shot that had hit the mark in her heart with
deadly aim. How could the child see into her so clearly?

Because,
came the answer,
she’s so much like you.

Theodora
paced around the chamber for a few more minutes, warring within herself.
Finally, she slapped her hand down hard on the desk, then reached for a quill
and parchment. Quickly, she wrote out an English translation of another verse,
one that all the would-be initiates of the Sisters were given as they embarked
on their ultimate test.

It
was their only weapon—their only hope of survival.

In
darkness find flint

With
fire find glint

The
strikes must be fierce

The
false hearts to pierce

Carrying
the scroll, she strode back to Artemis’s chamber.

When
Artemis looked up from where she lay on the couch, Theodora could tell that
she’d been crying. But the girl did her best to hide it, putting on a brave
face.

“Memorize
this precisely—every letter of it,” Theodora said, thrusting the scroll into
her hand. “Then try to sleep and freshen your mind. It’s up to you whether to
go on with the trial. I’ll come back in a few hours.”

If
the Goddess truly had sent her Theodora thought, the test would tell.