Red Wizard of Atlantis

by Ravek Hunter

  There was one feature of the outer ring that had always fascinated him: the high curtain wall that surrounded the city. It was made of Bluestone and enchanted by the Earth Wizards, who caused the wall to glow with a silver-blue luminescence at night and appear as beautifully polished silver during the day. What the purpose of the enchantment was he did not know, and for once, neither did Havacian. Qel supposed the emperor would do everything possible to keep their home safe, and the secret of the outer wall was probably just one of many exceptional protections they did not know about.

  “It looks like we are near to port,” Qel observed from the railing when the ferry angled in closer to the outer ring on final approach to the dock.

  Havacian pulled his sleeve. “Let’s go claim the horses so we don’t have to wait long to get off.”

  Qel thought that was a good idea too, and they walked to the center of the ferry where the animals were penned. Once the boat docked, they were able to disembark right away and join the flow of people that moved in the general direction of the north gate. Looking around at the unusual faces and costumes they passed, Qel recognized people from Ys in their colorful corsets and smartly tailored jackets, knights from Lyonesse wearing the white-with-gold-fringe cloak of their station; there were Mouillian traders, Gadesians, and even a few Dwarfs rumbling by. Of course, the Atlanteans towered above them all, and except for the few Dwarfs and even fewer Elves, the majority in the crowd were human.

  Turning from the port road onto the broad boulevard that took them in the direction of the north gate, Qel noted that here, too, white marble and granite dominated the architecture. All of it was enhanced by hanging gardens, grand fountains, and impossibly lifelike sculptures of exotic creatures real and imagined. They passed through the outer ring, where trade and mercantile served its purpose, and even among the apparent chaos of traffic and people, Atlantis displayed its undeniable beauty at an unrivaled scale everywhere.

  Qel suddenly realized how much he would miss not just the Wizards Enclave, but the City of Atlantis itself. It wasn’t like he was going to the family’s country estate with the knowledge that he would be returning in a few months. No, this time he might not return for years. Qel looked over at Havacian, intending to comment on that thought, then decided otherwise, not wanting to dampen the joy and enthusiasm clearly visible on his friend’s face.

  The busy boulevard became less crowded once they passed through the gargantuan city gates guarded by a score of mounted and unmounted imperial soldiers diligently observing everyone who passed through. Qel knew the way well and led Havacian onto the North Road beyond. They would follow as it curved its way through the interior of the Emerald Isle, leading through leagues of agricultural estates until it reached the city of Aquilon about one hundred and eighty leagues away. Along the way, they could stay at any number of inns, way stations, or estates willing to board travelers that Qel was familiar with.

  At the top of a ridge about a league outside the city, Havacian abruptly pulled his mount off to the side of the road and looked back at the glistening City of Atlantis in the distance. Qel stopped with him, observing the western-leaning sun reflected brightly off the silver curtain wall that surrounded the counterposed rings of white stone and deep blue channels of the sea converging on the center island of more white stone and the imposing semblance of Pontus himself. Seagoing vessels moved purposely throughout, bringing people and prosperity to every part of it while imperial flyers mounted on trained Rocs circled high above, keeping a protective watch.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Havacian said with a hint of sadness in his voice.

  Qel presumed that his friend had just now begun to realize what he had understood earlier, and the emotion was weighing heavily on Havacian. He felt sorry for his friend, he already having experienced the nostalgic pang, although it was probably worse for Havacian since his family was down there in Atlantis, while Qel was on his way to see his own.

  “You know we can come back here at any time we wish.” Qel tried to sound supportive.

  Havacian nodded slowly. “That’s true, but will we?”

  Qel had no answer for that. Pontus only knew where their travel and adventures would take them. For a while, they watched and reminisced about the life they were leaving behind until Qel patted his friend on the back, startling him back to the present.

  “We’re proper explorers now,” he said gallantly. “Let’s go find our destiny!”

  Havacian smiled at that, and the two turned their mounts north and raced up the wide road as fast as their sturdy Lambei would carry them, laughing with the rush of youthful exuberance and throwing their cares to the wind.

  Chapter 4

  Hellas

  The Naos of Kronos

  Beautiful cities of white marble columns, grand fountains, and lifelike statuary are shrouded in clouds at high elevations, as if to conceal their perfection of artistic expression. Indeed, it is like strolling through a metropolis of the gods! Their stories and legends come alive in this land where creatures from mythology are spoken of as commonplace, and they reflect their culture through painted carvings on every space they can manage. True or not, the folklore seems real enough when one walks among them. I would have enjoyed seeing much more of the beauty of Hellas if it didn’t require the skills of a mountain goat to get to so much of it!

  Wodanaz the Wanderer

  ~~~

  Akakios admired the Naos of Kronos as he approached the colossal temple. He was impressed by its structure, even after so many years. Tall columns supported the massive marble facing with larger-than-man-sized carvings of Kronos Demonstrating the activities that represented his province. Each was a masterpiece of sculpture in white marble highlighted with accents of red gold in each scene. There were the hearth and hammer with Kronos as the metalworker, the hammer and chisel with Kronos as the sculptor, the scythe and sickle with Kronos as the harvester, and fire in the hands of Kronos holding power. Akakios paused a moment before entering to behold the miracle of stonework that could only have been accomplished with divine conveyance guiding the artist’s hands to fashion the stone with such eloquence and virtue.

  The entire foundation of the Naos was elevated on a high stone base and carved with steps that Akakios and his acolytes climbed to the grand entrance of the temple. Set at the top of the landing, in front of the entry, was a large brazier that continually burned with a red flame day and night all year long, even with high winds and bad weather. Akakios knew it was no natural flame, ever burning and unquenchable; it was powered by the undeniable will of Kronos through the priests who attended to it. Ensconced on each column around the circumference of the building at multiple levels were ever-burning torches that illuminated the temple at night, reflecting the red gold and making the temple appear from a distance as if it were aflame.

  Beyond the brazier, Akakios led the acolytes through the open doors of the Naos, which were lined in more red gold and polished with a degree of diligence that they reflected smoothly in the daylight or torchlight. Farther inside, the passage widened into a long hall, and he passed rows of columns decorated with more carvings by master sculptors depicting Kronos posing or performing various activities he was known for.

  Akakios brought his retinue to a stop at the end of the hall where sat a simple altar with a small bowl that held the eternal red flame. Astride the altar were two guards in full bronze armor armed with harpe, swords with protrusions in the shape of sickles near the tips of the blades, that each held in salute along with a round bronze shield. Behind the armor, they were highly trained warriors who would swiftly strike down anyone foolish enough to defile the flame or the altar.

  None had ever been so foolish.

  Saying a prayer to Kronos, Akakios admired the wall behind the altar with carvings of flames that red gold had been pressed onto and smoothed over. The metal reflected the glow from the bowl, giving the flames life and movement of their own. This was the most holy space in the Naos. The blaze he
re required no attending from priests or anyone else. Akakios knew there was no trick to this fire. It just was and always would be, as it had been from the beginning.

  The Naos was oriented in such a way that on the summer solstice, the sun would shine down the wide hall and onto the gold flames, setting off a display that lent the appearance of fire flickering and dancing across the entire wall. Akakios knew this hall intimately, as it was the Fire-Bringer who conducted the Ritual of Fire on the summer solstice, as he had done for many years. The last time had been only a few weeks ago, with Kronos indicating a continuation of blessed prosperity and bountiful harvests to the good fortune of Sesklo and its people.

  At this moment, Akakios had little thought in his mind regarding any ritual. Instead, he wished to find the Hierophant to discuss his dreams. Instructing his acolytes to stay in the main hall, he made his way into the private sections of the temple where only the priests of Kronos could tread.

  The hallways and backrooms of the Naos that outsiders never saw were no less spectacular than the public areas of the temple. Most of the lower-level priests and acolytes had regular jobs in addition to their duties to Kronos, and given the god that they had chosen to follow, they were among the most talented sculptors, craftsmen, blacksmiths, and artisans in the city. Akakios admired their work and dedication to their god. Many of them enjoyed prosperous businesses and traveled to far-off lands trading their goods and serving Kronos at the temple in conjunction with their personal affairs.

  The Naos provided large rooms and courtyards for the pursuit of these crafts and teaching. Akakios passed by many of them now. The walls were covered with works by generations of priests who had left their artistic mark, and the storerooms were filled with dozens of masterwork-level sculptures and carvings. The Naos made a business of the crafts and often sent groups of priests, appointed to conduct trade for the temple’s benefit, into foreign lands.

  Akakios found the Hierophant, Miltiades, exactly where he expected the man to be this time of day, in his private office. There was an acolyte outside the door that immediately opened it for Akakios to enter, as the boy always would unless the Hierophant was in a private meeting or chose not to be disturbed. Anyone else would be announced and accepted before being granted entry.

  Inside, the Hierophant was sitting at his desk, reviewing various documents probably related to trade. An older man, the Hierophant had the strength and build of one much younger. Before he rose to the top leadership position in service to Kronos, he was an accomplished blacksmith and still to this day took a hammer to anvil every opportunity he could. Today he wore his usual chiton and kolpos, all white except for a red trim that added a hint of color. Akakios envied the Hierophant’s physique, considering that he was almost the exact physical opposite. His deformed foot would not afford him much in the way of exercise or sports to develop an athletic frame. Instead, long walks and a proper diet kept him in reasonable health.

  The room was illuminated by candles and the afternoon light from a single window, next to which sat two acolytes dozing in chairs while awaiting any task the Hierophant might send them on. Along the walls and scattered around the room were many tables and shelves cluttered with scrolls and tomes that gave the large room a slightly musty smell that many of the acolytes joked was actually the old Hierophant himself. Akakios also found the humor in that one and secretly wondered if it might be true.

  “Eukomai se, Hierophant,” Akakios greeted the Hierophant before taking a seat in front of the ornately carved wooden desk. Even that showed numerous scenes of Kronos enmeshed in his trade among his devotees.

  “Eukomai se, Ta Hiera,” he replied distractedly while moving papers here and there on his desk.

  “Is this not a good time, Hierophant?” Akakios asked politely.

  “Yes, yes—I mean, of course not, Ta Hiera. Are you well today?” he asked, putting aside the papers and looking at Akakios for the first time since he entered.

  Akakios replied with a small smile, “I am well, Hierophant, but I have a private matter to discuss with you.”

  Tapping on his desk to get the acolytes’ attention, the Hierophant pointed to the door, and the two boys hastened to leave his chambers.

  Once the door had closed behind them, the Hierophant leaned back in his chair casually and smiled. “Kyros didn’t give you fits for not dedicating his forge two minutes after dawn, did he, Akakios?”

  Akakios laughed. “No, Miltiades. Kyros is a fine man. He just expects the world to revolve around his timetable.”

  “To be so blessed with youth and arrogance again.” Miltiades almost sounded nostalgic. “I may not know much, but I am sure the only timetable we can count on is that of the gods, and they are very avaricious with the details.”

  Akakios let the mirth recede. He wanted to discuss why he had come to see the Hierophant, and it wasn’t to exchange drollery about gods and men. He allowed his voice to take on a more serious tone. “I have something important to discuss with you. I believe I have been having . . . visions.”

  “Visions?”

  Akakios leaned forward and rested his arms on the Hierophant’s desk. “Of a sort. Perhaps we can work out their meaning, if you suppose there is one.”

  Miltiades lifted an eyebrow with interest. “Please go on.”

  “It’s the vision of a beautiful woman, somehow brought to reality by a collaboration between Kronos and Metis. She has been bestowed with gifts by many other gods as well, and now she asks me to seek her out,” explained Akakios, “and I wonder: is this a fantasy of an old man or a directive from our god’s creation?”

  Miltiades appeared to be listening very carefully and remained silent for a long moment after Akakios stopped speaking. “Did the woman reveal her name to you?”

  “She did,” Akakios confirmed. “She said her name was Anesidora.”

  Miltiades stared at him, unblinking, almost stunned. “Come with me,” he said, then rose from his chair, put on his gold headband with flaming sickle and scythe, the sign of Kronos and a symbol of his office, and opened the door.

  The acolytes waiting outside immediately jumped to assist him with whatever he needed, but the Hierophant quickly waved them away. “Stay here until I return.”

  Taking an oil lamp from a small table outside his office, the Hierophant led Akakios through several dark hallways and down a stairway leading below ground level. This part of the Naos had not been used for many years other than storage for dust and cobwebs, and not a soul was seen along the way. In all his years spent working and praying in the Naos, Akakios did not think he had ever been down here before.

  At the bottom of the narrow stairway was a door thick with heavy wood that looked as if it had not been opened in decades, and the undisturbed dust on the floor before it seemed to confirm Akakios’s presumption. The Hierophant pulled a key hanging on a long silver chain from around his neck and, after a few tentative turns, unlocked the door.

  Inside, the light from the oil lamp illuminated a plethora of scrolls, texts, and tomes organized neatly on bookcases along the wall and in baskets lined up on shelves. “This is the secret library of sacred texts.” The Hierophant waved away the cloud of dust the opening door stirred up.

  “I always wondered what was down here,” replied Akakios.

  “As my successor, I should have brought you here years ago. But I always put it off until the next year or the year after. We all think we will live forever, until we don’t.” The Hierophant blew dust from a tome and then returned it to the shelf. “I’ve spent thousands of hours in this room over the years trying to understand the gods, and I still find it beyond my grasp. But there is something here you must see. I believe it will help you to make a decision about the meaning of your visions.”

  For over an hour, the Hierophant searched through a number of texts, looking for something he remembered reading once. Then abruptly he stopped as if impaled to the floor. “Here it is. I don’t know why I remembered this. When I read it previo
usly, it was meaningless, barely a fragment of the original text, and I didn’t give it another thought. Now I am confident that it is the single most important piece of knowledge gained from all these writings in this room.”

  The Hierophant turned the pages until he found the right one and handed the tattered book to Akakios to read for himself. There was a partial passage on a fragment of a page that could have easily been overlooked had Miltiades not known it was there.

  Akakios read it out loud, “And there was a communion not of divine flesh between Kronos and Metis that begot their progeny. They named her Anesidora, and she—” That was it, no other reference. He kept reading the short passage silently over and over, trying to make sense of the meaning and what else there could be.

  The Hierophant, realizing Akakios must have finished reading the passage a dozen times, quietly spoke, “It was written by Eusebios over a thousand years ago. The gods were giving you a glimpse of the past perhaps to validate the legitimacy of their issue. It makes me pause to wonder why, after so many years, I would recall what I have always thought was an obscure and insignificant passage in a forgotten text. It’s humbling to think that one may be a pawn in the great game of the gods.”