“Arvintor’s not responding. We’re connected, but I’m not receiving any power from Him. I can’t free us!”
“Is Ontarem blocking Arvintor?”
“No, not that I can feel.” I’ve failed. We’re going to be captured by Ontarem! “I don’t know what to do,” her voice rose.
Indaran leaned over the side of the wheelhouse and shouted a command, ordering the crew to lower the sails and drop the anchor. The sailors scurried to obey. With the sails furled and the anchor sunk into the olive-green depth, the ship slowed, but still Ontarem pulled them toward Penutar.
Khan squeezed Jasmine’s shoulder and lifted Sheriff out of her arms, handing the Monga to Daria, who cradled him in her free arm. “Take me with you to Arvintor.” He reached for her hands and closed his eyes.
Jasmine did the same. Shutting out the sight of her gray surroundings actually made her feel calmer. She inhaled and imagined reaching for Khan with her othersense. His blue energy swirled with hers, propelling her awareness toward Arvintor.
Close to the God, Jasmine realized Arvintor wasn’t answering her because He was giving all His attention to the Che-da-wah. She caught a glimpse of a group of mounted nomads throwing spears at Ontarem’s soldiers—desperation on some faces, determination on others. Not far away, Jasmine could see the teepees of a camp, oldsters and mothers with babes in arms crowded into the middle, children holding on to their hands or clutching their legs. Some of the old men and women held spears, facing outward, the last defense of the vulnerable.
With a gasp, Jasmine withdrew, not wanting to shake the God’s support of His people.
“Ontarem’s soldiers war with one of the clans.” Her voice sounded shrill to her ears, and she strove to calm herself. “The nomads are protecting their elderly and children. They need Arvintor’s help.”
Indaran let out a curse. “Combine our energies,” he snapped. “Jasmine, you bind us together.”
Jasmine sank into her othersense. Once again, she extended a mental hand to Khan, who’d already linked with Daria, their silver and blue energy perfectly blended. She reached for a link to Indaran’s, his power a darker cobalt than Khan’s, then braided their power together. Remembering her prior attempts to sever Ontarem’s connection with Baby Merrel, she visualized a giant saw and exerted all her efforts into slicing through the tow.
The black tentacle bent like rubber but didn’t cut.
Sweat dripped down her back. No matter how hard she tried, Jasmine couldn’t free the ship.
Beside her, she felt Indaran coil his power. “Give to me, my people!” he yelled with voice and othersense.
The crew and soldiers, the people from Seagem, including the priest and Archpriestess Anza, answered their king’s command, sending their energy toward him. Indaran grabbed their offering and flung everything they had into the flow.
This time Jasmine’s saw cut into the rubbery substance. Ichor spilled out with a hiss like acid. Before she sliced more than a few inches into the tentacle, the visualized blade stuck fast and would not budge. Even the extra strength from everyone on board wasn’t enough. Her fear grew, threatening her concentration.
“Khan, Daria,” Indaran said in a sharp tone. “Reach for Withea.”
Jasmine sensed the two of them withdrawing from the meld, stretching across the ocean to the Goddess. Khan and Daria had to struggle to move out of Ontarem’s territory. But once free, she felt Withea waiting to pour Her power into them.
Khan and Daria’s bodies arched, as if they couldn’t contain the wave the Goddess sent to them. They struggled to shape the flow and pass it to Jasmine. The energy whipped around like a giant hose with the water pumping through too strongly.
The wave of power hit Jasmine, almost knocking her off her feet. As the strength swelled within her, the sawblade unstuck, slicing through the tentacle as if it were butter. Jasmine had a sense of Withea’s satisfaction before the Goddess withdrew.
Indaran fisted his hand into the air in a victory motion, then grabbed the handles of the wheel. He yelled commands to hoist the sails and raise the anchor, and the ship headed toward the cove.
~ ~ ~
The day after viewing Yadarius, Pasinae paused at the heavy metal door that lead into the Cave of Crystals. She’d never been inside but had heard tales from Dorent, the priest who’d resided on the island when a seadog burying some of his ill-gotten plunder had broken into the cave and discovered the giant crystals.
When the seadog had fetched Dorent to see the cavern, the priest immediately knew the discovery would have enormous ramifications. In the presence of the immense crystal prisms, he could feel his othersense increase in power. He’d ordered the hole closed until he could get a crew to chisel a proper opening, which he then sealed with a metal door. As soon as he’d accomplished that task, Dorent had sailed for Penutar and reported the find to Ontarem.
Ontarem had ordered Nabric and Kokam to the island to experiment with the crystals. But the intense heat of the cavern, seeping up from the magna below, hampered their research. Men could only endure the furnace within the cave for about ten minutes. And one man who’d wandered off to steal some of the smaller crystals was later found baked to death. Using their othersense, the two Trine Priests could double their time inside, but they’d quickly learned that the heat sapped their physical and mental energy for two or three days afterward.
Kokam and Nabric took several years to learn how to manipulate the crystals to magnify Ontarem’s energy tenfold. Only then did the God concoct the plan to trap the SeaGod. But neither the Trine Priests nor Ontarem had realized that the strength of the crystals could fade just when the power was needed the most.
Pasinae took a deep breath, pushing aside her reluctance to face the task ahead of her.
Dorent opened the metal door.
She clutched the pearl of power to gather her othersense reserves and entered the cavern. Inside the horseshoe-shaped cavity, uneven crystal blocks lined the floor. Huge crystaline prisms jutted out from the bottom at strange angles. At her first glimpse of the incredible crystals, Pasinae forgot her discomfort with the heat and wanted to explore the space.
Her heart pounded from fear and the intensity of the temperature. Pasinae placed each footstep with care. If she slipped and fell, she could impale herself or tumble into deep pits.
Dorent followed close behind her.
Within minutes, sweat had completely soaked through her clothes. Her breathing became labored. With her eyes and her othersense, Pasinae searched for the perfect crystal—one that was big, but not too big for a crew of strong men to carry up the mountain, one that ended in a perfect point, and resonated with the power of the God.
Dorent touched her arm and signaled toward the exit. “I’m leaving.
She nodded, knowing another priest would take the man’s place. They wouldn’t leave her unprotected. A wave of dizziness washed over her. For a second she glimpsed her mother standing near a translucent pillar, beckoning to her. A childish longing welled up in her, then Pasinae blinked and the image disappeared. Rein-in your thoughts. You don’t remember your mother. How could you even imagine you saw her?
A man touched her arm.
She turned to smack away his hand, then vaguely recognized the hook-nosed priest, Vaptor.
Frowning, the priest shook his head and pointed at the door.
Through her disoriented thoughts, Pasinae vaguely realized she’d come to the end of her ability to withstand the heat. She turned and stumbled.
Vaptor caught her elbow and half-dragged, half-walked her toward the door.
Outside, the humid air seemed as cool as a winter night. Bending over, hands on her knees, Pasinae gasped for breath. She heard the slam of the metal door behind her.
Someone handed her a gourd, and she greedily gulped down the water, then held out her hand for another. She dropped onto a chair and drank as if she could never replace the moisture squeezed out of her body from the heat. Her energy depleted, all she want
ed to do was lie down. Pasinae wondered how she was going to make the trip back to her house.
A man cleared his throat.
She looked up at Dorent. He too was dripping wet and held a gourd in his hand.
“Knowing how debilitating the journey into the cave is, we have prepared a place for you to rest, Trine Priestess. Your maid awaits you there with your pack.” Vaptor pointed toward a small, hut-sized shelter made of the black rock and tucked against the cliff. “The men will be over there.” He gestured toward a slightly larger one on the opposite side of the cave mouth.
Pasinae couldn’t speak. She could only muster the energy to nod.
Vaptor held out a hand to help her to her feet.
As much as she hated touching the seadogs—even one of Ontarem’s priests—she didn’t have the strength to rise unaided, so Pasinae allowed Vaptor to assist her to the hut, where he left her in the hands of her maid.
Inside the darkened room, a small pool of water beckoned. She stripped off her clothing and waded in, sinking to her knees. The slide of cool water over her parched body felt better than she could have imagined.
Her maid handed her the ground leaves of a juma plant, which the natives used on the rare times they bothered to bathe. She immersed herself before rubbing the juma over her hair and body and then rinsing. Her skin tingled. Although tempted to linger, Pasinae knew she’d fall asleep any minute now. Rising from the bath, she took a towel from the maid and dried off. She donned a loose sleeping shift, drank another big gourd full of water, then tumbled onto the bed stretched across the back wall. Sleep pulled her down. But before she went entirely under, Pasinae realized she’d have to brave the cavern again…and again until she found the crystals Ontarem needed to restrain the SeaGod.
~ ~ ~
In his quarters, Tharon hesitated in front of a peg holding an outfit that he assumed was to work in—gardening or performing the opened-handed dances all the people here did, or…weapons practice. Instead of the white robe he usually wore, this was an off-white tunic and trews. He fingered the trews, which seemed made of chamois material, while the shirt was of heavy pliable cotton.
As if challenging him, a rectangular box the length of his forearm lay on one of the shelves of the wardrobe, and he knew what it contained. He’d peeked at the knife when he’d first entered the room after his healing. But he hadn’t felt ready to face the weapon because he wanted to run the blade through his chest and end his miserable life. The only thing stopping him was the sense that taking his life wasn’t an option. He had a feeling Guinheld would just revive him.
Today, for the first time since Withea had severed his link with Ontarem and Tharon had become free from Ontarem’s enmeshment, the weight of shame and pain had lessened and his future prospects seemed less bleak. Hope wound through the darkness within him, as thin and delicate as gold silk thread. All because a foreign woman crossed the window from Seagem into Zacatlan.
A sudden and unexpected surge of energy made Tharon yank the robe off over his head. Hanging it on a peg, he donned workout clothes. Grateful to have retained his own footwear, he lifted the knife box down and slipped the blade into the special sheath in his right boot.
Then he opened the large trunk in the corner of his room, one of several sent with him.
Early on, he’d given the contents a cursory look through, but then the items held little meaning and he’d closed the lid on his past. Now, he remembered seeing his sword—not the bejeweled one he’d used as king, but the unadorned practice blade of his youth, the weapon so often wielded in friendly competition with Indaran.
Tharon found the sword at the bottom of a trunk and pulled it out. Leaving the blade sheathed, he balanced the weapon across his open palms. Micfal, the weaponsmaster of Seagem, had had this sword made for him. None of his royal students were allowed fancy weapons. He could hear Micfal’s gravely voice in his mind and, with a surge of nostalgia, remembered sparring with the old man.
For the first time, Tharon wondered what had become of the weaponsmaster. His body hadn’t lain near Iceros’s. Just remembering the carnage in the palace…the scene of the king’s last stand, made Tharon want to weep. The only consolation he had was that he himself hadn’t killed Iceros. By my orders, but not by my hand. It’s just as bad, but at least I don’t have that memory to haunt me.
Princess Daria. Micfal must have accompanied her into the desert—and died protecting her. Otherwise, the weaponsmaster would have been present at Tharon’s disastrous attempt to capture her. The disaster that turned into my salvation, Tharon reminded himself. If he hadn’t gone head to head with Daria, Khan, and Withea, the hitherto unknown Goddess from the wasteland, he would have remained under Ontarem’s control—enslaved, empty, and dangerous.
Tharon buckled on the sword belt, deciding he would find a private courtyard, practice Besolet’s…. No! He thrust the thought away. The Goddess Besolet had betrayed him to Ontarem. The pain from that realization still cut deep, although he knew Besolet no longer reigned in Ocean’s Glory. Withea had replaced the deposed Goddess.
At least my people will be well taken care of by their new Deity.
Then he thought of the soldiers from Ocean’s Glory who’d brought him to Zacatlan and reconsidered the idea of practicing in isolation. He’d never paid any attention to the rank and file, indeed, was willing to waste their lives when he judged it necessary. Guilt squeezed him. Thank goodness, he allowed the seadogs to take the brunt of the invasion.
If I’m going to lead this war, I’m going to need to be a different kind of leader—one who cares about those under my command. Those men will need the advanced instruction only I can provide—Micfal’s training.
They’ll probably turn on me.
So be it. But I must try.
Grasping the silk thread of hope like a lifeline, Tharon pressed the rounded stone to exit his chambers and hurried toward the main plaza, resolving to work hard, build his strength and…he paused amid a field of orange flowers, his heart thudding. I will find a way to defeat Ontarem, destroy his power, and bring Seagem’s people home!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sadie wandered through the area outside her lodgings, enjoying Zacatlan’s strange yet beautiful beehive buildings and admiring the unusual flowers and the arching lavender sky. Tranquility lay over the land, so different from the desolation of Seagem. She wondered if capitol had felt so serene prior to the battle with Ocean’s Glory or if the energy of the city had been different. For a moment, sudden sadness rose in her that she’d never know Seagem in its heyday, and she quickened her steps to outpace the emotion.
To her right, the familiar sound of blades thunking and the shouts of men caused a stirring of excitement in her. Sadie increased her pace.
She rounded a building and came upon a tree-lined stone courtyard. A group of men wearing black stood in a semi-circle around a pair of fighters with swords. Judging by the uniforms, they weren’t from Zacatlan, and she wondered if they were the soldiers from Ocean’s Glory.
No women. Sadie wondered if women fought in this world. Or it was it like Earth, where most women didn’t fight or join the armed forces?
Sadie hurried closer. She paused behind a tree to study the men and observe their swordplay. In her rare spare time, she liked to attend Renaissance sword practices at the Salle Gelnaw and fight with heavier swords. She hadn’t become an expert, by any means. Her training with her master at the salle in sabre took all her focus. But she found the Renaissance fighting a pleasant diversion, which she believed added to her expertise with the sabre.
These men held shorter blades than she was used to—just a little longer than a cutlass, but without the curve, wrapped in leather, which told her they had sharp edges, not like the dull blades Renaissance fighters used. They’d leave nasty bruises, maybe even break bones if the swing was hard enough and not blocked, but they wouldn’t cut the participants.
She watched the soldiers for a while and figured out from the precise move
ments they must be practicing a pattern, not free sparring. Each pair ended with a flourish and a salute, and another replaced them. After a while, she could see they performed the same pattern. Once they finished and walked out of the circle, one of the men standing somewhat apart with his arms crossed, sword in a scabbard at his side, gestured and called out something, although she couldn’t hear the words. He must be the coach or leader or whatever kind of hierarchy they had here.
Two combatants more stepped out, gave a salute, and started. They fought in earnest, no longer keeping to the rigid style of earlier matches.
Narrow-eyed, she studied them, learning their moves and figuring out the difference between victory and defeat. She’d watched a lot of sparing in her day—of all levels, including the best in the world. Yet she couldn’t help wondering why these professional soldiers didn’t live up to her expectations. Maybe this isn’t the elite squad.
I can hold my own, she thought, anticipation rising in her at the thought of practicing again, even if the activity wasn’t fencing. Now that my shoulder’s healed, I maybe can even take them.
One man won. They saluted with their fists, and then the defeated fighter slinked back to the circle and another stepped out. He too was speedily dispatched. The more the first fighter won, the more he started to crow over the others, calling out insults and strutting between bouts. Just like a rooster, with his barrel chest and gingery hair and beard, the man tossed his head and preened.
Sadie decided she didn’t like him. I can reduce him to chicken dinner.
She turned on her heel and jogged back to her quarters. Once inside, Sadie opened her travel case. She wished she had a traditional sword but hadn’t brought one with her to Israel, only two of her sabres. She lifted one and set it on the floor next to the case and rocked back on her heels, thinking. I’ll be fighting here. I know it. At some point, the enemy might…will try to kill me. And she had a sense this place didn’t have modern weapons, not that gods and goddesses couldn’t destroy humanity as effectively as bombs.
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