Laughter, like the tinkling of tiny crystalline instruments, and the Sylphii that Stone had followed here swirled and swooped between the other Avatars. No, wait; different Sylphii. Their forms even smaller, more delicate, yet from them Stone could feel energy and speed without limit, far beyond those sprites of before. This was the Avatar of Air, its true form no more discernible from its children than a gale from a breeze; only the intensity spoke of the difference.
And lastly, Water.
The tempests and oceans of worlds beyond counting appeared in the form of a woman. Her shape was utterly female, her outline curvaceous and inviting, yet within her depths one could see fury and power that could crush without mercy. Yet unlike her children, Water seemed to have control of her temper, not spoiling for a fight, but controlled and patient. For the oceans saw much and welcomed all into their briny bosom.
She strode towards him, slowly, gracefully, her footsteps splashing salty foam upon the crystal floor.
Welcome, our champion, she spoke, in a voice at once melodious and beguiling, yet could grind continents to sand.
“What is this place?” he asked in wonder of the Mistress of the Sea. “Such abundant life. I never had the chance to witness this place when last I was here.”
This is the Garden of the Elements, she explained, a proud smile upon her face. And this is our Temple. Our home. Where the Avatars come together, where our influence combines, life grows and flourishes in ways that none of us could bring forth by ourselves.
Stone nodded in understanding, thinking back to the harsh and desolate realms over which the Avatars held sway by themselves.
“It’s all about balance.”
And balance is what you seek, is it not, Stone? Fire’s question came forth as a hissing crackle that seemed to suck all noise from the air till only its own words remained.
“It is,” he nodded in reply. “You’ve given me all this power, yet now I feel more helpless than ever. I have a vision of the future, a plan to save mankind from the invasion to come. But I feel that if I have too much of a hand in the proceedings, then I risk destroying that vision, just as much as if I had no hand in it at all. So you’re right; balance is what I seek.”
“Then turn around, young Nagah-Slayer,” came a familiar voice from behind him. “And we shall do what we can to lighten this burden of doubt.”
***
Michael stood in line at the airport, awaiting his turn to show his passport and collect his boarding pass. The passport was fake, of course; countries the world over would be looking for him under his real name after the bombing, of that he had no doubt.
British Intelligence would have seen to that.
But the reach of the Brotherhood was long, and their ways as creative as they were devious. The fake passport he had been given was of the highest quality. There should be little trouble in boarding this Airbus A380, Emirates Flight 2317 direct to London, Heathrow.
Idly, he rubbed at the scratches that itched on his shoulder; a parting gift from Alison Crane. Christ, that woman had been all but insatiable. She had men at her beck and call, she’d told him. Women, too, when the mood struck her. But they were all drug-addled, mollified and lacking in imagination. He was different. An individual. He had a maverick streak, a contempt for authority and tradition that had excited her.
He still struggled to get round the fact that he had bedded a Master of the Brotherhood. Or mistress, as the case may be. That was certainly how she’d made him refer to her last night, in any case.
But after pleasure invariably came business. Luckily, in Michael’s case, his line of work was one and the same. The plan was simple and seemingly so doomed to fail, especially after the events of September, 2001. For was not airport security more strict? Didn’t air-marshals frequent flights and armed jets patrol above important cities these days?
Yet such prudent measures could never hope to foresee the weapons at the Brotherhood’s command. Michael had often thought of himself as foremost amongst the organisations assassin’s and operatives. Perhaps he was, of the mortal element. But his eyes had been opened now to a vast and dark world of mysterious power that at once terrified and enthralled him.
This Memphias, the Master of all Assassins. His foot-troops, the Khrdas, able to spring from the darkness, to attack and kill with the slightest touch, before disappearing without a trace.
He smiled as he handed his passport to the pretty woman at the check-in desk. She smiled in return, face flush at the attentions of this handsome man, completely unaware that his good humour had nothing at all to do with her and everything to do with the events of the next few hours.
***
The kettle whistled and Nikki hoisted it from the hob, the shrill noise dying down as she poured the boiling water into the mug of coffee, before placing it back and stirring. As she mixed a dash of milk into her drink, a shadow over her, blotting out the soft glow from the fire.
Evans.
She turned, giving him her best glare of go away. But he was oblivious.
“I wanted to apologise,” he began, in a voice that reeked of a forced hand and little option. “I didn’t know what you were mixed up in. I had no idea about the scale of all of this. I just thought it was some sort of conspiracy, some terrorist organisation. And that you were some kind of sympathiser. I… erm…”
She waited until he faltered to a stop.
“Are you done?”
He nodded meekly and she walked away, feeling a thrill of righteous joy yet keeping it firmly from her face. Looking about the Common Room, she tried to seek out anyone that she might know, to sit and talk with, but the only faces she recognised were Alann, who sat in deep discussion with Andrews, and that man Arbistrath by the fire. She couldn’t warm to the Tulador; his manner was brusque, yet carried with it none of the charm that the Woodsman’s did.
He seemed bitter.
But then she’d heard what he’d been through, where he’d travelled. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising. To come back from such horrors with one’s sanity intact was an achievement in itself. Perhaps bitterness was a small price to pay.
She left the room in search of female company, Gwenna or Virginie, either would do. Both seemed to possess a way of comforting her and making her feel at home. Down the stone corridor she strode, the soft lights growing ahead of her to guide her way. Now that she was used to the dragon, its halls and corridors that once seemed to claustrophobic, so forbidding, now seemed safe, secure. Cosy, almost.
You’re on a time-travelling dragon, miles above the Earth, filled with warriors and wizards exiled from another world… and you find it cosy? She smiled to herself; life was a funny thing, and the mind’s ability to get used to its changes was funnier still.
As she walked along the corridor, she passed a spiral staircase, similar to the ones that led down into the depths of the ship, only this one led up. Curious, and with no-one there to advise her otherwise, she ascended the stairs, mug of coffee held carefully as she went. They went up, spiralling higher and higher till she thought she might end up stepping out onto the very back of the dragon itself, but finally they stopped and she found herself in a short hallway with only one door right at the end.
Head cocked to one side, hesitant yet determined to see what this doorway led to, she took a sip of her coffee and pressed on. As she reached the end of the hallway, as if sensing her intentions, the doorway opened with a quiet hiss to let her through.
And Nikki gasped.
The sky, such a brilliant blue and so vast that she felt as though she were going to be sucked out, to hurl through the air and fall to her doom. But no; as she looked closer she could see that there was glass there, or whatever indestructible material passed for glass in the flanks of the dragon. This doorway didn’t open into the sky itself, but into a room, one of the large windows of which she was looking through now. She stepped through the portal and it closed with a barely audible hiss behind her.
She was atop a small, stone sta
ircase gazing down upon a round room surrounded by windows that looked out upon the heavens. There was an aura of tranquillity here; a small pond in the centre of the room, the occasional splash as koi swam to and fro. The air was thick and heavy with flowery incense. Outside, the clouds drifted by, great, fluffy pillows, leaving droplets of moisture against the windows.
Down in the room, two figures sat by a strangely glowing board that lay between them. The very figures that she’d been looking for. As if aware of her scrutiny, they looked up at her.
“I’m sorry,” Nikki said, making to turn. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“Pas de tout,” Virginie beamed. “Please, come, join us. It’s no trouble.”
She did as the French girl asked, descending the steps into the room proper and moving over to join them, settling on a soft cushion by the strange board. Upon closer inspection, she could see that it was a map. Of Britain, no less. Golden lines criss-crossed its familiar shape. Here and there, pinpricks of light blazed brightly, of many different hues and colours.
“So what are you girls up to?” she asked, hands wrapped about her warm mug of coffee, the wafting incense causing her to half-close her eyes with its soporific aroma. It smelt of lavender and camomile. And other scents that she couldn’t quite place.
“Scrying,” explained Gwenna, turning her gaze back to the glowing map before them. “This map shows us the whole of Britain. The power of the spirits of water allows us to find anything that we seek.”
“And what are you seeking right now?”
The head shaman smiled, eyes flashing with excitement.
“Certain individuals. People with unique ‘gifts.’”
“People like you, you mean?”
“You catch on quickly,” Gwenna laughed. “Yes, people like us. People with a trace of what we call ‘the gift.’ The ability to see spirits. Such people can be trained in the art of Spirit-Craft. These individuals might prove useful to our cause in the years to come.”
“And what are you going to do with these people? Bring them here?”
The shaman looked thoughtful.
“Perhaps. I’m not sure yet. I may instead send my best shamans out, to visit these people, to act as mentors and help them to hone their gifts. Perhaps such smaller-scale, one-on-one interactions might be the way forwards. Shamanism isn’t something that can be mass-produced, not without losing something of its true essence in the process.”
Nikki nodded as she took a sip of coffee.
“I’m assuming these dots of light are the people you’re looking for then?”
“That’s right.”
“What about the lines?”
“Lines of Power. Along these lines, great spiritual energy flows. Where such lines converge, the barrier between worlds grows thin. In such places, the spirits are more active, restless. People with the gift are often drawn to such places.”
Again, Nikki nodded. She asked no more questions, instead simply observing the glowing board with inscrutable eyes. It was Virginie who broke the silence.
“You’re uncomfortable?” It was a question, but sounded more like a statement, an observation. “This world is all strange and new to you and you wonder whether you’ll ever fit in. But at the same time, you know that you’ll never be able to go back to your old life after everything you’ve learned.”
Nikki locked eyes with the girl.
“That’s exactly how I feel, yes. I couldn’t have put it better myself.”
Virginie nodded slowly, her smile full of empathy and understanding.
“I felt the same way too, at the beginning. Sometimes I still do, in quiet moments when I’m on my own.”
Nikki cocked her head to one side, curious.
“Were you not with the group from the beginning, then? I mean, I noticed the French accent, but thought nothing of it. You were recruited here, on Earth?” She frowned for a second, recalling what she was told of the band’s scattering through time and subsequent rescue. Her eyes widened in comprehension. “You’re from the past?”
“Oui.” Those soft, brown eyes seemed amused at Nikki’s shock. “C’est vrai.”
“That’s incredible,” the reporter breathed. “And I thought I had it bad. Not only are you mixed up in this strange world of magic and dragons, but you’re hundreds of years out of place.” She shook her head in amazement. “One question, though; how does a French girl from hundreds of years past speak such good English?”
Gwenna laughed.
“How do any of us speak English?”
Nikki opened her mouth, confused, then frowned.
“You’re right. That’s a good question. Why is that?”
“The power of our lord,” she explained. “He cast a spell upon us, a while back and a universe away. You hear us speaking your tongue. We hear you speaking ours. It’s proved a useful trick,” she laughed.
Nikki went to sip her coffee, then wrinkled her nose as she realised it had gone. Noticing that, Virginie took the mug from her and wandered across the room. There was a drinks cabinet there, a kettle too. As she was busying herself fixing the trio fresh drinks, Nikki continued.
“He’s an impressive man, your Lord Stone. He’s friendly, open, easy to talk to. But there’s just something about him that feels… I don’t know…”
“Inhuman?” Gwenna ventured.
“Yeah. That word’ll do as good as any. He’s so… big. Powerful. Intense. Being near him I can feel my heart going ten to the dozen. I feel like anything is possible, like all my dreams can come true if I simply run after them hard enough. It’s exhilarating. But… I don’t want to run all the time. Sometimes I want to slow down. To take it easy. To be in the company of someone more… well…. ‘human.’”
The head shaman nodded.
“I never knew Stone back when he was just a mortal man. I know of only one person who did, but that person is gone now. I sometimes think even Stone forgets what it was like to be… just human.”
There was a look of sadness in her eyes that caused Nikki to change the subject.
“What do you know about Alann, the Woodsman?”
The look of sadness vanished to be replace by one of admiration. The sudden change made Nikki smile and at the same time feel an irrational pang of jealousy.
“The Woodsman is perhaps the bravest and most honest man I know,” Gwenna told her. “He’s suffered a great deal of loss in his life, but somehow he’s managed to turn that pain into strength. His selflessness inspires many.”
Nikki nodded, a wary smile on her face as she spoke.
“I can tell. I feel comforted around him. Safe. It’s like he always knows what to do. He’s never rash.”
Virginie returned bearing drinks, the two taking them gratefully as Gwenna glanced sidelong at Nikki, amusement twinkling in her eyes.
“You like him, don’t you? Alann?”
Nikki flushed like a schoolgirl and was instantly annoyed with herself because of it.
“Well,” she blustered. “I mean, what’s not to like? He’s honourable. A real gentleman. That’s rare these days.” She suddenly looked at Gwenna, eyes wide. “You and him, you’re not…?”
The flame-haired shaman glanced at Virginie, the two breaking out into good natured laughter.
“No,” she assured the reporter. “You’ve got nothing to worry about there, have no fear.”
“Oh,” Nikki said, with a nod. Then she noticed the looks between the two girls and comprehension finally dawned. “Oh!”
The two laughed further, then Virginie enquired:
“It doesn’t make you uncomfortable, does it? It doesn’t seem strange?”
“No, not at all. I mean, it’s not my thing personally, but I have no problem with it. Two girls, two guys – it’s common these days. I’m just surprised, that’s all. You’re from the past, a time of strict religion, when anything out of the ordinary was… I don’t know, shunned. We’re taught that people who were ‘different’ were ostracised back then
.”
The French girl nodded.
“It’s true. In my time, you had to conform or you brought shame upon yourself and your family. My parents wanted me to marry a wealthy man, to advance our station in life. But that future was not for me. I always knew I was, how you say, different.”
Nikki sat there, fresh cup of coffee in hand, amazed at how open these girls were being with her. They talked with her, shared with her as though she were an old friend rather than a stranger. Such openness was unheard of in Britain, where neighbours could live next to each other for decades without exchanging more than a grunted ‘good morning’ as they went to work.
“One of the main principles of shamanism,” Gwenna explained, “is that we’re all one. All in this world together. Any boundaries, any differences; they’re man-made, in your head. Your feelings, your sexuality, are nothing to be ashamed of, whether they lead you to man, woman, both or neither. You can do no more than be true to your heart.”
The British girl smiled.
“I shall have to bear that in mind.”
“Your feelings earlier were right, Nikki,” Virginie told her. “You will never be able to return to your old life now. Not with everything you know. I could never have gone back to my family, hence my decision to stay. But this troupe, this band; the shamans, the Tulador Guard, the Foresters – they’re my family now. And with them I’ve found more freedom and acceptance than I ever thought possible…”
The French girl was all smiles, but behind those brown eyes, Nikki thought she could see a flicker of hesitation. In an instant it was gone, leaving her to wonder whether she had ever noticed it at all.
***
“What’s up, Marlyn? I was told you had something to talk to me about?”
Pol waited uncomfortably for the Tulador’s reply. The Bridge, the centre of operations right in the head of the vast stone dragon was dark and empty, the strange consoles lifeless, their chairs unmanned. The only light came from the screens before the young Guardsman, that rendered his face pale, ghostly and serious.
Bloodless Revolution (The Graeme Stone Saga Book 5) Page 13