Adam of Albion (18 page)

“Orph,
zip your lips,” Adam hissed. “Let Cristof talk.”

“To
see this is marvel enough,” Cristof said, still gazing at Orpheus intently.
“But explain to me—the Templars have you now, do they not? How can you also be
here—are there two of you?”

“Bold-faced
identity theft,” Orpheus declared, now with righteous indignation. “I never
imagined I’d be a victim, but that’s what everybody thinks until it’s too
late.”

Adam
rolled his eyes. “There
are
two of him, sort of, but they’re really the
same,” he cut in. “The one the Templars have belongs here, in this time. But
this Orpheus and me—we come from the future. Except he really comes from the
ancient past.”

Cristof
shook his head. “Mystery upon mystery,” he murmured. “What you say about the
ancient past—I’ve been having strange dreams these last few nights, very vivid,
as if I had the fever. I seemed to be a man who lived in those times, in a
great island kingdom that was on the brink of disaster.”

That
sounded like MaelTarna! Adam thought.

But
Cristof exhaled, like he was bringing himself out of a trance, and became the
firm, decisive soldier again.

“How
I wish we had more time together, my friends—but you must start your journey,”
he said. “I have a feeling—as strange as my dreams, and as clear—that we’ll
meet again one day, in a way that none of us expects.”

Artemis
walked through darkness again—at least she was used to it by now—feeling her
way carefully. No option for starting another fire had come along yet, and a
stumble over the chasm edge would plunge her back into the river. She kept
track of her steps, trying to gauge how far she’d gone. After a few minutes,
she thought she must be close to the island’s center.

Glint,
she kept telling herself. You have to find a glint.

And
then, at last, she saw it—ahead in the near distance.

It
appeared suddenly, as if perhaps she’d tripped some kind of sensor. At first,
she could only see a thin glimmering vertical line of no particular color, just
light. But as she got closer, the glow told her what it was: a sword about
three feet long, made of some kind of crystal. At first it seemed to be hanging
in mid-air, but then she saw that it was mounted on a stone wall—thrust point
down through the heavy iron hasp of a door, like a bolt to hold it shut.

Theodora
had said that there were only two doors, one to enter and one to exit. Going
through it was the only hope of escape.

Artemis
edged forward still more warily. This was the part everybody had seen in movies
a thousand times—after you’d overcome the hazards getting here and you finally
reached for the treasure, that was when you got skewered by a fleet of poison
arrows, or a huge boulder came bounding along to squash you, or a wave of
molten lava to turn you into fondue.

Don’t
stop to think about it this time, she told herself. Don’t stop at all. Just do
it.

She
forced her hand forward, gripped the hilt, and yanked it up hard, free of the
bolt—then backed away, teeth clenched, waiting for doom to strike.

Nothing
happened.

After
a moment, she realized that, absurdly, some part of her was actually a little
miffed. She’d envisioned herself dying gloriously and heroically, with a
healthy dose of self-pity because she was alone, forsaken, and no one would
ever know. Instead, she was still stuck here in a huge dank cave, except now
she had a sliver of crystal in her hand.

Oh,
get off it, idiot, she thought impatiently, and turned her focus to the sword.
It was beautifully fashioned, with a keen edge and fine tapered point, and
sized just right for her.

Now,
the final part of the verse, so baffling before, started coming into focus.

The
strikes must be fierce, the false hearts to pierce.

Whatever
the false hearts were, they must be on the other side of the door. Emboldened
by her success, she reached for the hasp—then paused.

This
was too easy. After the inky darkness, the fall down the rockslide, the plunge
into the cold river and desperate climb back out—then to see the sword
conveniently lit up like a Christmas ornament, and she was supposed to just
walk up and grab it, saunter on through the door, pierce some false hearts, and
sail on to triumph?

Not
bloody likely. No, it was
calculated
to make her feel so relieved and
victorious that she’d relax her guard. She still had to go through the door,
that seemed clear. But there wasn’t going to be anything relaxed about it.

She
started by studying the door itself. It had an unusual shape that was rather
unattractive, something like a lopsided American football with a few knobs here
and there. Probably if you were cutting a door out of solid rock, you wouldn’t
be choosy about the aesthetics—but then again, wouldn’t a simple rectangle like
the first door be easier? Still, it didn’t tell her anything.

She
prowled around a little longer, using the sword for light, but there was
nothing except the same old rocks everywhere. Well, too easy or not, there
didn’t seem to be anything else to do but give the door a try. She went through
her mental preparations again, while hefting the sword to get the feel of it
and flexing her muscles from her neck down to her toes. Then she reached for
the hasp and pulled the heavy door toward her, groaning on its stiff hinges.

Inside
was a circular chamber, with shards of the same kind of crystal embedded in the
walls to give it a glow. It was empty except for a pool of what looked like
ordinary water in the center. She stepped cautiously to the edge and gazed
down. The surface was opaque, reflecting the soft light and absolutely still—a
perfect mirror.

The
sight that met her made her gasp in horror.

She
looked terrible! Hair a stringy wet mess, not a single dab of makeup left on
her face, scrapes and purpling bruises everywhere. The burqa hung shapeless and
forlorn like a pot of asphalt dumped over her. She was a walking disaster, a
one-woman superfund site—if anyone back home could see her like this, she’d be
quarantined for life.

But
then a little grin curved the corners of her mouth. She also looked really
tough, like an un-glam Lara Croft—and she had a sword in her hands, which she’d
earned.

Somehow,
that helped a lot.

“Bring
it on,” she breathed, tightening her grip on the hilt—braced for a barrage of
ravenous piranhas leaping up out of the pool, or a lurking monster snaking out
tentacles to drag her down, or at the very least, a sneaky shove from behind
that would knock her face forward into the water, which would turn out to be
acid.

But
instead, a thought came into her mind that seemed to be put there. This wasn’t
like imagining Adam’s voice giving her advice—this was formless, without
anybody or anything attached to it, and yet very distinct.

You
must choose your destiny, Artemis. Don’t look outside yourself—it lies within.

Destiny.
She’d never thought much about her future—she was just who she was, doing
things that came naturally when she was left to herself, and other things, like
school, that were imposed on her but she accepted because she knew that in the
long run they were good for her, and besides, as a kid she didn’t have much to
say about it.

But
that did change as you got older—and for the first time, it really hit her that
she
was
getting older, starting to turn the corner to adulthood.

Who,
what, was she going to be?

Then
her eyes widened as she saw that her reflection in the pool was changing. New
images were appearing—all of her, but all very different.

There
she was as a chic, confident woman in her twenties, walking briskly along a
London street lined with expensive shops, with the breeze tousling her hair
like a golden cloud. She was wearing a stylish blue dress and calf-high suede
boots, far from her current wardrobe of black boyish duds.

Plus—a
wedding ring. She had a husband, maybe children, a lovely home and a successful
career.

Who
in their right mind wouldn’t want that? But was it really her? What about her
dreams of exploring, adventuring, unlocking the mysteries of the past?

Now
a second Artemis was emerging alongside the first—the same age, but a world
apart. This one was more like she was now, wearing faded jeans and a khaki
shirt, with her hair tied in a pony tail. She was prowling around an ancient
settlement of crumbling, overgrown stone buildings with a lush jungle canopy in
the background. She exuded her own brand of competence—keen, tough,
watchful—which made the glossy city woman seem complacent by comparison. No
wedding ring here—she was free to do as she pleased.

Although
a little complacency didn’t really seem that bad, considering all the pleasures
and benefits of the first life. Could she have both, she wondered?

Then
a third image came into focus. This Artemis wore the black robe and red sash of
the Sisters of Isis. Her face looked harder—but her eyes had the same look as
Theodora’s, of mysterious inner power and knowledge.

That
was what she wanted, more than anything else in the
world.

But
was it really? Or rather, an ideal that her childish imagination had created
and clung to? Could she actually bear to spend the rest of her life in this
primitive fortress, pursuing inner riches but bereft of any outer ones, a goal
that she might not even attain?

She
was so caught up in the power of the unfolding images and the questions they
raised that she almost lost track of where she was. But that same formless
thought nudged her again.

You
must choose.

Suddenly,
she understood! The false hearts were the wrong choices—the Artemises that she
couldn’t, and wouldn’t, ever be. She had to put an end to them, now—finish them
off with fierce strikes of the sword.

But
which? How could she know what her true calling was? Up until today, she’d
never had an adventure greater than getting on the wrong bus in London.
Everything she’d known about the Goddess came from old dusty books. And while
she knew other girls her age were fantasizing about boys and houses, she’d
hardly given that part of life any thought. How was she supposed to
choose?

The
beautiful, happy, successful Artemis seemed foreign to her, and yet awoke a
longing she hadn’t even known she had. The adventuress was easier to imagine
herself as, but that was all it was, imagining. The Sister in the black robe
gave her a mysterious thrill, but was even more outlandish than the others.

The
strain and tension were coming back full force, and her hands were sweating on
the sword hilt. What would happen if she chose wrong—and killed her true self?

She
closed her eyes and searched deep, deep within, trying to still her panic, her
ego, her greed at the things she wanted and her pride at how awesome she might
become. It wasn’t
about
that. It was about the real Artemis, the kernel
within those possibilities, and within all the other possibilities that might
ever possibly be possible.

And
that was it—the answer, right there.

She
opened her eyes and stepped forward to the edge of the pond, moving boldly now.
The images coaxed her with inviting smiles, their lips moving as they seemed to
murmur,
It’s me, me, me—you’ve always known it, now make it come true.

Trembling,
she raised the sword high, point down.

Shoosh!
as it plunged into the water—straight through the
heart of the beautiful young woman in the chic blue dress. The feeling was
horrible, like actually piercing through flesh. The woman’s face contorted in
agony, with the eyes flaring wide and desperate in a
How could you?!
look.

As
the image faded with the ripples, Artemis spun around to her other side.
Shoosh!
went the sword again—this time, into the black-robed breast of the Sister. Her
face turned fierce with rage, and she hissed what sounded like curse in Arabic
before she, too, faded away.

The
adventuress sighed with pleasure, her smile widening and her arms opening for
an embrace.
Yes, yes!
she murmured—
you’ve chosen right, you’ve passed
the test, now you are me and I am you—we’ve won!

Shoosh!
as Artemis plunged the sword down once more, turning
the smiling face to a mask of shock.

She
threw back her head and shouted defiantly at an imagined audience of Theodora
and the Sisters beyond the chamber’s glowing walls:

“They’re
all
false, you sneaky liars! I’m way more complicated than this little
charade. When my real choices come, I’ll know it, and
I’ll
decide. Not
you, trying to trap me inside a box—me!”

But
now, the ripples of the dissolving images started to roil. Within seconds, the
pool looked like a tiny ocean in a violent storm—and as the water gathered into
rising, frothing waves, the troughs revealed what was lying beneath the
surface.

Bones.
Human skeletons, packed together in a hideous mat as if the Grim Reaper had
been playing pick-up-sticks.

The
water kept rising fast, spilling over the edge of the pool and lapping at her
ankles. For a few seconds, she stood there stunned—it didn’t seem like there’d
been nearly that much of it. Then she realized that it must be welling up from
a hidden source, as if a giant faucet had been opened.

The
chamber was filling like a bathtub—and very soon, it would be full right up to
the ceiling.

She
whirled around to the door. It had closed behind her.

By
now, the water was climbing to her knees and the waves were slapping her chest.

“I
answered the truth—it’s your test that’s a lie!” she screamed at the Sisters.
“I hate you bitches!”

She
dropped the useless sword to free her hands and started treading water, trying
to clear her mind of terror and say goodbye to the people she loved, before she
joined the bone-choked graveyard of the women who’d been smart and strong
enough to make it this far—only to suffer this final, cruel deceit.

Then,
as she struggled to keep her face above the churning surface, the last line of the
verse echoed in her mind again—as if put there by that same voiceless something
from outside.

The
false hearts to pierce. False hearts, hearts, hearts
—