The flame burned high and blue, and he immersed the tip of the cigarette in its heat until the embers of paper began to glow. He snapped the device shut and drew a sharp breath, releasing a faint thread of smoke through his teeth as he watched the Oracle climb the stairs.
The old woman ascended with her cane, flanked by two guards. She made her way slowly, the torchlight coloring her hair and her bulky robes, her expression pleased as she stopped before the altar.
She stared down at Tristan. “You have done well.”
“Thank you.”
“I can feel the presence of our new Dini.”
Tristan’s eyes narrowed, but he made no comment.
“Your death will be quick and glorious.”
“I hope so.”
“And our world will be reborn.”
He considered his cigarette. “Perhaps not in the way you expect.”
“You have visions now, Admiral?”
“I have sense, does that count?”
She studied him, this turn in conversation unwelcome. “Your time is at hand. Your wife and daughter await you.”
“This child you want, she won’t bring the change you’ve imagined.”
“You question my prediction?”
“Is it a prediction? It’s all going dim, isn’t it?”
The Oracle scowled, taking a step toward him, her cane clicking on the stone. “This Dini will bring change.”
“No one can bring change here. Your ‘daughters’ live in a crypt, hidden from the world, so that you can maintain absolute control over them. Nothing will ever change, not while that control remains in place.”
“You do not understand our world.”
“Do you want to know why you can’t see the future anymore?”
The Oracle glared down at him. “Kill him now.”
The guards raised their spears, climbing to the altar.
Jia struggled against the hands that held her. “Tristan!”
Tristan shook his head, staring at the Oracle as he released the last thread of smoke through his teeth. “It’s simple. You can’t see the future, because you’re not in it.”
With a flick of his hand, he tossed the cigarette down the vent in the stone. A whipping stir of air seemed to draw breath down the hole, then explode outward in a brilliant plume. Fire swept over the Oracle, swallowing her dark robes, lighting them like tinder. She screamed with rage, a harsh and inhuman sound, her dark form spreading out as if it had wings, her hair billowing with blue flames.
Jia caught her breath, feeling the searing heat on her face, the easing grip of the guards as they stood in shock.
Another vent blew open, blasting away part of the altar and showering rocks along the steps. The floor beneath them trembled, the fire spreading through channels cut in the rock. One of the great pillars of the colonnade sank on its base and collapsed, falling from its dizzying height to crash into three pieces against the wall.
Screams erupted from the Temple floor, priestesses dragging each other up to flee, a mass of people heading for the safety of the caves outside. Most of the guards disappeared, dropping their spears and descending the stairs in panic. Some remained on the steps, locked in place by fear.
Tristan appeared from the smoke, grabbing onto Jia’s arm and dragging her away from her captors. They didn’t fight him. No one fought him. No one seemed to notice as he charged down the stairs with her in tow, cutting through the crowd of women at the Temple’s entrance.
“Out!” he yelled, urging those who wouldn’t move, but not stopping for them. “Go!”
Cool air swept over her as they ran along the narrow path to the docks, leaping over stairs and darting between rocks and short stretches of sand. The town spread out beneath them, its narrow streets lined with sapphire and emerald lanterns, bowls of fire sparkling from the darkness.
Jia could see women pouring out of their homes and holding each other, issuing cries of horror as bright violet flames engulfed the Temple on the cliff above them. The sound of collapsing rock thundered from above, great pillars toppling, the roof of the cavern now glowing with heat.
The docks floated on the luminous water of the channel, the canoes already pulling away, hunters paddling priestesses from the dock.
“There are more boats!” she called to Tristan, tugging on his hand until he turned back to her. “Along the channel. Larger boats. Everyone will evacuate. There is a plan. We should help.”
“Not you,” he said. “You’re getting out.”
“But—”
“Your hunters can handle the evacuation, yes or no?”
“Yes, of course, they will, but—”
“You need clean air. Now.”
She shook her head. “Impossible. The canoes are gone. We have to go with the group, swim for the boats.”
Screams rose from the channel.
Jia turned to see a shadow forming in the deep water, cutting through the current from the outer caves. It headed for them, pushing a heavy wake, rocking the canoes in its path before breaching upward. It punched through the surface, a sleek machine floating on a glittering cushion of water, its shining body a tiny version of Tristan’s giant submersible. It settled down in the water, rocking sharply from side to side. Streams of vapor shot from square metal vents. Its outer lights blazed to life.
“Perfect,” Tristan changed direction, leading her by the hand as he crossed the docks, heading for the miniature submersible.
She heard a clang issue from its metal hull, its bright skin reflecting the burn of flames high on the cliff. A round door popped open at the top of the craft, wheels and gears shining from its polished underside.
A uniformed officer appeared from the hatch, flanked by an old man, his white hair tangled into white tufts, his wide eyes fixed on the fiery glow of the Temple. “Dear Lord!” he said, then dropped his gaze, catching sight of them standing on the docks. “Tristan! Couldn’t you have left a single block standing?”
“Stay here.” Tristan released her hand and dove into the water, his big body plunging under the surface, his black hair loose and streaming as he extended his arms and swept through the water toward the submersible.
Jia glanced back at the Temple, its great pediments now just shadows looming in a wall of towering flames. The carved rock would remain, but the structure would surely fall if the gas failed to burn itself out in a matter of days, crumbling to the water like the civilization that had created it.
“Jia!” Tristan had climbed onto the sub. The machine was drifting closer, the sound of its engines chugging heavily in the current. He held out his hand as it neared the dock. “Come with me.”
She nodded, putting aside the horror and the ache in her heart. She leapt from the planks to the submersible’s metal rail. Tristan’s hand clamped onto her from above, pulling her up.
He slid his arms around her waist and urged her toward the hatch. “Inside. The air is filtered.”
Jia climbed over the riveted plates and through the open hatch, dropping down into a small chamber with tiny metal benches.
“Oh, yes, quite,” the old man said. “Hello there.”
Hoses and wheels lined the walls, pipes hissing and metal thrumming at every turn. The glow of the water filtered through a round window at the front of the craft, providing the young, uniformed pilot with a large view of the channel.
Fish darted in panicked streams along the rock floor, with the undersides of canoes floating like sharp clouds on the surface above. She angled her view of them, watching the paddles dipping on either side, the occupants of the small boats leaving everything behind.
Tristan descended the ladder, nearly filling the space, his thick arms and chest, with their deep scars, dripping wet. He closed the hatch and spun the wheel to seal it tight. Then he glanced over the tiny cabin, his eyes finding her, then the old man seated beside her.
“Arthur.” He nodded. “I see you found the maps useful, after all.”
“Not really,” the old
man said, his skin flushed. He frowned, looking anywhere but where she sat, trying to avoid the sight of her breasts, she realized. “All dumb luck, I’m afraid. We were quite lost at one point, but we found your pistol, and drifted with the current from there. We couldn’t breathe for too long up there. It stings the eyes, but we have masks. Amazing, the concentration of gas, obviously a hydrogen based—”
“Yeah, okay,” Tristan cut him short, turning toward the pilot. “Get us out of here.”
“Sir,” the pilot quipped, pushing the wheel in front of him forward.
“Dear child, what we’ve put you through,” Arthur lamented, glancing at her. “And all that knowledge lost…those great libraries.”
“The libraries are safe,” Jia murmured. “Deep under the Temple, in the vaults. The Divine Spirit is light. It rises very quickly, and there is no breeze on the cliff. That is why it does not cause problems with the torches, but fire directly in the vents . . .”
The old man brightened. “Ah, if the libraries are safe, well, that’s something, isn’t it?”
Tristan ignored him, taking one of Jia’s hands in his own. He leaned toward her, his dark eyes seeking proof of her well-being. “Nothing can be kept or lost.”
She nodded, fighting tears that came without her consent.
He kissed her hand, cradling her fingers in the warmth of his own. “But you’re in my heart. And I’ll be right here.”
Confluence
Jia stood on the fresh planking of the dock, seeking the sunlit glitter of the water below between the boards. Tristan’s men had picked a good place, a small, green lagoon with a sandy bottom, protected by sheltering arms of rock. The breeze was fragrant here, warm with the scent of summer blooms and chattering with birdsong.
She glanced out to sea, past the whitecaps battering the reef and clouds of restless gulls, to the large battleship anchored in the deep water. It disturbed her, this image, this towering gray fortress with its railings and guns, but she could say nothing against it.
Tristan had promised her they would do no harm, and that promise had been kept. The town had been rebuilt, not carved from cold stone, but constructed with strong wood. Not in the dark, not in the shadows, but on the grassy hill between the waterfall and the beach, with the mountains behind it and a sweeping view of the ocean.
Jia looked down at her canoe, its bleached prow tethered to the dock and bouncing lightly on the laughter of waves. Black striped fish slipped underneath it, gliding in coy circles before disappearing in the shadow of the round pilings.
She frowned, hearing the whisper of footfalls along the sandy beach. Too heavy to be a woman, too unyielding to be anything but a hard leather boot. A shadow appeared along the water, a tall form walking the solid planks toward her, the sun at his back.
“Tristan,” she said, looking up to see him standing there, his black hair shining and his face and shoulders tan. After months of hard work in the sun, his skin had lost its pallor, now warm brown, his lean chest swirling with the ghost of pale scars. He squinted against the glare of the water.
“Still not quiet enough, I suppose,” he said.
“You could not surprise me, not in those boots.”
“No.” He conceded, considering her carefully before he spoke. “The Treaty was signed by the King and ratified by the Parliament last week. The government of Delphia is now officially recognized as a sovereign power, its territory defined as this island and its surrounding waters.”
“I am sure the new council will be pleased.”
“I’d hoped you would be pleased.”
She pressed her lips together, wondering if she was. “So much change, so quickly… The council desires trade with your government. Even the priestesses want it now, more visitors, more offerings to the temple they will rebuild. They believe that it will be like it once was, in the ancient times. More outsiders will come, more ships.”
“Visitors will be limited to the other side of the island.”
“It will no longer be quiet.”
“There will still be quiet places.”
“And the wars? They will call you to fight.”
“No.” He smiled. “How could you think that?” Closing the distance between them, he slid behind her, stroking his hands possessively over her swollen stomach. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She relaxed against him, smelling the ocean on his skin, feeling his strength at her back. “How can you be sure?”
“I’ve been named Ambassador to the newly elected government of Delphia. A first rate posting, in my estimation, even if it does come with Arthur as an assistant in the matters of cultural transition and preservation, which I suspect means absolutely nothing.”
“Ambassador?”
“I’ll represent the King here. It means he’ll pay for our house.”
“A glass house.”
“A tree house. I don’t care.”
“I cannot wear big dresses.”
“I don’t own any.”
“I will always hunt alone.”
“And bring back something that fits on a plate, I insist.”
She laughed at that. She couldn’t help it.
“I’ll be good to you, Jia,” he said softly, his voice a sensual caress against her ear. “Whatever change comes, I will face it with you, share it with you. The life we build will be our own.”
She reached down, threading her fingers between his, helping to hold the life inside her belly. “Not just our own.”
He was quiet, but she felt his agreement, his pride as deep as the ocean, and as open as the sky.
About the Author
Morgan Karpiel
Morgan Karpiel is a RWA Golden Heart Finalist (2005, 2009 & 2010) and the recipient of the prestigious Maggie Award of Excellence in Fiction. She is currently working on the next novella in her erotically-charged Fantasies of New Europa series. The first of the series The Inventor is currently available. She also welcomes you to visit her website at MorganKarpiel.com
Table of Contents
Cover Image
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Destiny
Chamber of Light
The Hunter
The Journey
The Temple
The Union
Confluence
About the Author
The Admiral Page 8