Love Is in the Air (63 page)

But it never came. Risking a glance, Syra found that the assault had come from the shore and was aimed toward the skiff.

One sailor had taken a shot in the arm, while the boat was pelted with arrows. The men raised angry fists in the air, but backed the dingy from the shore.

With renewed hope, Syra climbed again. This time, the rope pulled along with her. Using the last of her energy, she pushed to the top of the bank.

“Here!” a voice shouted again.

Just as Syra was about to slide back down, a hand grasped her forearm. With the unseen stranger’s help, Syra finally crested the bank and stumbled forward.

“Syra?” the voice asked.

“I am not certain,” was her reply.

The world was still a blur, along with her own identity. Coughing up dirty river water, Syra fell to her knees. If only she could rid herself of these blasted visions as easily. The world threatened to shift again as her stomach churned.

“You should not fight it,” the familiar voice said, as Syra wretched again.

That is what the golden-crested man had said in the thick jungle kingdom. But how could she not? It was as if she were still drowning in the river. Her thoughts muddled as if she were trying to look through a swirling pool of water.

Looking up, Syra found the hag bent over her. What did this old woman know about Syra’s own soul that she did not?

“Who am I?” she asked.

The hag shook her head. “That you must tell me.”

Syra wished to scold the woman for her evasion, but another rolling wave of nausea claimed her. This time the world appeared to be a huge jungle. Thick and steamy.

“Syra?” the hag asked.

The old woman’s voice brought her back to the damp shore. With each snatch of vision, Syra could feel her head fill with rich memories.

“I was once named Zi?”

Relief swept over the old woman’s face, smoothing over the thick wrinkles. “Aye. Then you know who I am?”

When Syra shook her head, the hag’s face was covered with concern again. “You still do not remember?”

Oh, she remembered much, but nothing she could put into words. It was as if she had been picked up by her heels and shaken violently. All of her innards were stirred around and had not yet settled into place.

“If you know of this, tell me,” Syra begged, as her stomach threatened to lose itself again.

“Oh, poor child, I have done too much already,” the hag cooed as she pulled Syra’s wet hair back from her face. “The rest you must discover on your own.”

Looking at the old woman’s steel-gray eyes, Syra felt a glint of recognition. The small nose. The high forehead. The crooked grin. Syra had seen this face in one of her visions. The hag was the woman at the Temple of Hephaistos.

“You were with Romulus,” Syra said, as the choking subsided.

“Nay, that was one of my ancestors.”

Syra looked deeply into the hag’s eyes. They were so similar. She could remember their fearful glint back in the torchlight.

With this memory so strong in her mind, a name formed on her lips. “Mirta?”

The old woman’s face pinched a bit. “Mirta?”

“Aye. That is your name, is it not?” Memories flowed into her consciousness, but Syra could not trust them.

“It… It has been several generations since you have graced us. I… We had thought it pronounced Marta.”

Syra shook her head. The memory felt right and strong. Perhaps even more acute than the sight of Scotland’s docks. Even though she should not be, Syra was certain of the pronunciation.

“Nay. It is Mirta.”

She could remember so much of a woman who had not lived for over seven hundred years. Was her mind being lost to the gods?

“How do I know this?” Syra asked as the hag helped her to her feet.

“I am here to protect you, my lady, but you must remember on your own.”

Protect? At the thought of the word, Syra’s mind tumbled into memory again. She was back at the Temple of Hephaistos with Romulus’ blood thick on her hands. Rising, she took the dagger that had doomed her lover and attacked the priest. He was gutted in a shorter time than it took for her to shout her revenge.

“Behind you!” a warning rang out against the rock walls.

Syra spun to meet her next attacker. Several of their honored guests had become solid enemies. She hacked at the man, but he had the advantage of a broadsword. Back against the granite wall, Syra was cornered until the flash of a blade cleaved the arm off of her attacker. The limb and sword crashed to the ground. Standing in his stead was Mirta. The old woman held out a hand.

Mirta’s face was a grim smile. “That is why you never outlive your Guardian, Zi. You must let me protect you.”

As she clasped the woman’s hand, Syra felt herself sucked back to the present time. She looked at the hag again.

“You are my Guardian?” she asked, not quite understanding the term.

Mirta’s face brightened. “Aye. I am your Guardian, as was my mother, and grandmother, and grandmother before that.”

Guardian? Syra felt she should know the term like she knew her own name, but it was buried with a thousand other memories. She fought to stay in the present, but the past kept tugging her back, showing her images that were real but unfamiliar.

Syra had to struggle to stay on her feet. “We must get away from the bank. It is still not safe here.”

She tried to stand on her own, but her legs refused to obey.

“Sit,” the hag demanded. Syra tried to resist, but Mirta would have none of it. “You are weak from exhaustion and hunger. Sit.”

Syra might have refused, but her limbs were useless as she slumped to the ground. Mirta busied herself gathering food as Syra tried to keep her head from cracking open. The old woman handed her a piece of hard bread, and Syra dove into it hungrily.

The brief moment of quiet was lanced by pain in her left eye. Doubled over, Syra again tried to regain her balance. But the human skull was not meant to hold hundreds of lives, each competing for prominence. How could she remember so much but understand so little? Syra could explain Mirta’s life better than she could her own.

Moaning through the ache in her belly, she asked, “Who am I?”

The old woman looked startled that Syra had asked such a question.

“Why, you are The Fated.”

* * *

Brutus felt relief wash over his shoulders as he walked into his study. He had broken away from the dinner at the earliest convenience. No one else seemed shaken by the seer’s words except for Brutus.

Even Caesar scoffed at the old man as if Suprinna were nothing but a fool. Did no one else realize the grave danger the general was in? Who else around the table had heard whispers of the fatal conspiracy and did not speak up? If even Tillius was involved, Caesar’s stalwart defender, anyone could be ensnared as well.

Sitting down heavily in his chair, Brutus hung his head. Partly out of exhaustion, but also shame. There was so much at stake for Rome, for himself. Yet his mind replayed the image of Syra’s face when he had falsely called her a slave. Stabbing Caesar could not feel much worse.

“Master, you have arrived,” a very relieved Horat said as he entered the study.

With all that had happened in the past few days, Brutus wanted no company. Even that of a man who had brought him home from the orphanage.

“Aye, Horat. It is late. Get yourself to bed.”

“Syra has not returned home yet. Did you send her off on an errand?”

Brutus felt his stomach sicken to hear her name. If only there were such a simple explanation for her disappearance. As close as Brutus was to Horat, he did not wish to relive those moments again. “She has left Rome.”

The servant seemed to take the information harder than even Brutus, for Horat sank down into a chair. His face looked suddenly old, as if the news had drained a decade from him.

“She could not,” Horat said.

Brutus desperately wished for this conversation to be over. “She is. Lylith will not be returning as well. Pack all of her belongings and send them to my mother’s.”

Horat seemed to hear nothing of Brutus’ orders. Instead, he harped on Syra. “If Lylith is gone, then why did you send Syra away?”

Pounding his fist upon the table, Brutus could not hold his temper in check any longer. “I did not! She ran. Is that what you wish to hear? I called her a slave in front of all of Rome, and she fled the city.”

Brutus immediately regretted his outburst. Horat did not deserve such hot words. The only person deserving retribution was himself.

The old man seemed taken aback by Brutus’ confession. His old fingers worried over one another as his frown deepened.

“You must find her,” Horat stated.

Surprised by his servant’s boldness, Brutus shook his head vigorously. “Nay. She has made her choice, as I must now.” Brutus waved his servant away. “As I said, it is late.”

“Do you not…” Horat’s jaw muscles tensed as if he were biting off words before they could be uttered. “Do you not fear that she will end up like Tiberius?”

“She is not a child. She fought in the Spanish campaign. She would be no safer here.”

“But surely—”

Brutus kept his tone civil. “Enough. What is done is in fact done.”

Horat looked like he wished to argue, but rose from his chair.

Brutus stood as well. “Tomorrow bodes no better. We both had best get some sleep.”

The two men walked out of the study together, but Horat paused before he entered the hallway. “Would you be angered if she returned?”

Angered? Brutus would kill a hundred Caesars if he could just look upon her face once again.

* * *

The pain in her stomach had waned after Mirta fed her the bread and pear, but this nausea seemed to have nothing to do with hunger.

The Fated?

Syra could feel the rightness of this title in her marrow. Brutus and she were bound through time to find one another. But all else was still a blur. Each time the urge to lose her stomach came, another memory would surface. Just enough to blind her sight, but not enough to enlighten her. How greatly she wished Brutus were here.

“Are you fully Awakened?” the hag asked with hesitation.

“Nay.”

Again, Syra recognized the term but could not truly understand its meaning. But whatever the event, Syra was certain it was not complete. She clutched her midriff as her stomach churned. She could not live the rest of her life in this haze between reality and memory.

Mirta stroked her back in a soothing manner. “Is it always this difficult?”

Amongst all of the memories, Syra could tell this was not a normal Awakening. “Nay. But it is always harder alone.”

Strong emotions always heralded the Awakening. Many times, so many in fact that Syra could not count them, it was upon her first kiss with Brutus. Sexual energy was a powerful catalyst. There were snatches in her memory of Awakenings within a battle or during a heated argument. But the smoothest, most fulfilling Awakenings were always together, locked in an embrace. The more heated the passion, the richer the Awakening.

Recognition dawned on Syra. It had been the bone-handled knife that had stirred this Awakening. But how had it gotten there? Anger replaced Syra’s confusion.

“You placed the dagger within my pack!” Syra spat out.

Mirta’s eyes dilated, then she cast her gaze down.

“How could you?” Syra asked, not expecting that answer. “You forced my Awakening, did you not?”

Still, the old woman would not answer. Mirta’s wrinkled lips trembled as Syra continued. “The Order. Is that not what your people are called?”

The old woman only nodded.

Syra’s disbelief was clear in her voice. “You broke the Order’s edict. What would make you do such a thing?” Shame was clear on Mirta’s face, but she would not answer. Syra grabbed the old woman’s wrist. “Speak, or I will invoke the penalty of death now.”

With her emotions heightened, Syra could feel more memories pour into her. This was the most sacred of the Order’s laws. The Scholars who made up this Order were some of the finest minds in the world, but these men and women were mortal. They were not The Fated.

Despite their great uses, Syra and Brutus would not have allowed the Order to exist if they dared tamper with their Awakening. That was between them and their Fates.

“Speak, woman,” Syra demanded.

Mirta’s words were forced. “I had thought at the Forum you were Awakening. But then you left. What was I to do? The Crux—”

“Crux?” Syra interrupted. The term stirred something deep inside her. The only reason that she and Brutus Awakened through the ages was to guide the Crux. They were to shepherd civilization through its awkward youth.

Much flooded into Syra’s mind as pieces of the puzzle began working themselves together, stitching a more complete tapestry. In a rush, she realized this age’s Crux.

“Caesar. He is the Crux, is he not?”

“That is what the Order believes, and his assassination draws upon the sun’s rise.”

Panic gripped her heart. The next morning?

“I have Awakened too late,” Syra groaned. Over the ages, she came into herself much earlier in the flow of events. Weeks, months, sometimes even years before the Crux reached its apex. In this life, it was but a handful of hours.

“Nay, there is still time,” Mirta said. “The Scholars have flocked to Rome and are assembled and ready to assist.”

Syra nodded. It did not take the Order, filled with men and women who studied through the centuries, to discern that this Roman general was the vanguard of a struggle for civilization to move forward. Caesar was central to the world’s culture. But none of this would do any good unless she could reach Brutus and Awaken him in time.

“You see my sorry condition. I cannot travel to Rome by sunrise.”

Mirta pointed over the hill. “I brought two horses. I have been searching the banks all day.”

Of course. How else could the old woman have caught up with her? Syra felt the anger drain from her chest as they walked to the glen. Without Mirta, she might not have Awakened in time. To think that she might have sailed out into the Mediterranean before learning her heritage doused her burning anger.

Syra shuddered at the notion of leaving Brutus not yet Awakened to face the Crux. That Fate was even more unthinkable than breaking the Edict. The old woman did not deserve Syra’s scorn. There was great reasoning behind the hag’s actions.