Currents of Will: Book Two of The Atlantis Chronicles

by Susan MacIver

  Rivulets of water coursed down Kyla’s cheeks and spilled over her lips. She tasted the salt and neither knew nor cared whether they came from within, caused by her own searing sense of loss, or were merely trails of unremitting sea spray. She swiped her eyes and continued to search the mammoth line of swells that rolled across the empty horizon.

  The genocidal rage that Travlor had unleashed upon her people had taken a catastrophic toll. She knew that the cavern floors of Atlantis were littered with the bodies and blood of Atlanteans and mercenaries alike; however, she knew the lengths to which Evan had gone to protect her and her people. Her thoughts brushed his with infinite tenderness. “I do not know anyone who could have withstood the choices you have had to make . . . We have both lost so much, yet your safety alleviates a measure of my grief . . .”

  It seemed as though her compassion broke the very heart of heaven. Winds that had sung a mournful dirge escalated to an earsplitting keen and an explosive blast of thunder shook the ground.

  Jagged shards of lightning ripped through the rain-engorged clouds, and Evan and Kyla held each other before an onslaught that seemed as though every element of heaven and earth had joined in a vast primal wake.

  Blinded by the storm’s ferocious display, Kyla almost missed the faint shimmer of light. A biosphere broke from beneath the weight of the sea, and hammered by wild surface waves, labored to reach shore.

  “Evan, over there!” Kyla tore herself from Evan’s arms and bounded through the surging tides into deeper water. Followed closely by the topsider, they grasped the slippery sides of the biosphere and steadied the craft as the canopy dematerialized.

  Mer-An, cloaked in dark glasses and earplugs, dragged herself from the vehicle. She willed the canopy closed and clung tenaciously to the stern. Her thoughts found Kyla. “Nine children inside … terrified … more are on their way!”

  They strained against the inexhaustible undertow and wrestled the biosphere to shore. The hatch dematerialized, opening a new world to some of the last children of Atlantis. Even though their goggles and earplugs shielded them, they were terrified to move when they were lifted from the biosphere. Seeing them lined up in a passive, silent row, Kyla’s heart wept. “Come to me … We must get you out of your bioskins and into topside clothes … Mer-An is here and we will take care of you …”

  Mer-An and Kyla helped the children out of their bioskins and guided them into the surf. They scrubbed their tiny bodies with sand while Evan threw the ’skins into the empty duffels and found clothing for them.

  The storm raged even as Kyla helped the children to shore and into the ill-fitting topside garments. Mer-An stood alone in the surf, listlessly scrubbing her bioskin. The woodenness of her motions revealed her exhaustion. Evan waded out to help. “Mer-An! Let’s move!” His sharp command seemed to re-energize her. Together they scrubbed her skin while Kyla found clothes for her.

  Once Mer-An was dressed, they huddled around the children in silence, their voices and thoughts muted by the might of the storm and the cataclysmic events of the day. Tension began to ease as weary thoughts from beyond their numbers began to penetrate the blanket of numbness that had crept into their minds.

  “We are almost there . . .”

  “I am behind you . . .”

  “I think I see shore break . . .”

  “There are others that follow . . .”

  Through the driving sheets of rain, several dim beams of light appeared at random intervals as biospheres breached the surface. Evan and Kyla battled their way back into the crashing surf, leaving Mer-An to safeguard the children.

  Exhausted beyond thought, everyone worked mechanically, repeating the same process as biospheres made it to shore. Each one was intercepted, dragged to shore, emptied of passengers and secured well past the high-water mark. Everyone helped each other decontaminate as best they could.

  As the storm shrieked to its furious apex, the final vessel emerged from the bitter depths. To Kyla, it looked as though Ni-Cio had lost control of his craft. The biosphere careened through the high seas and hurtled toward a lethal outcropping of volcanic rock. Evan bellowed loud enough to be heard over the storm. “They’re not going to make it!”

  He broke from the group and leapt frantically through the incoming surf. Twenty spent Atlanteans followed his lead. Kyla watched in horror as the men struggled to gain purchase on the slippery vehicle. They swarmed the craft and, through their combined strength, they were able to alter the deadly trajectory of the storm-driven vessel. At last, stabilizing the biosphere, the canopy disappeared.

  Ni-Cio evaw Azaes rose from inside and jumped with weary grace into the storm surge. Even from her vantage point, Kyla could see that fatigue had carved tight, grim lines into his handsome face. And the tired, encumbered movements with which he strained against the violent blows of the surf spoke of the tremendous ordeal he had endured. She held her breath and watched as, in agonizing degrees, he raised one muscular arm to offer aid to his best friend. Aris thrust his body from the biosphere.

  Surrounded by Evan and the others, Ni-Cio and Aris were scrubbed down and divested of their bioskins. At last, they waded through the waist-high water and stumbled upon the rocky beach. Kyla had their clothes ready, and once they were outfitted, they trudged over the sand-covered rocks to stand before the shattered remnants of Atlantis.

  Kyla moved next to her brother and took his hand to comfort him. She saw the questioning looks that lay beneath the shock and sorrow on the defeated faces of her people. She knew that Marik had bequeathed a terrible task to Ni-Cio, a task that he had never wanted.

  His entire adult life, Ni-Cio had resisted the fact that he was next in line to succeed Marik as council leader. He had never wanted to be tied down by such an obligation and its inherent responsibilities. He gratified his need for something different with his job collecting samples. Wandering the seas and surreptitiously stealing glimpses of topside life helped offset his desire for adventure.

  Ni-Cio never suspected that Kyla knew his deepest secret: with his unquenchable wanderlust, Ni-Cio had been bored with life in Atlantis.

  When Daria had come into his life, Ni-Cio’s restless soul had found peace and fulfillment. His wanderings had ceased and he had felt secure enough in the new healer’s love that he had accepted his ascendency with less reluctance.

  Now, everything had changed. Travlor had taken Daria, only the gods knew where, and Ni-Cio was the default leader of a displaced group of people who had no idea how to survive topside. As the existent council leader, everyone looked to him for guidance and deliverance. And it was clear that Ni-Cio struggled with his own grief. “Kyla, how am I to guide the needs of others when I could not even help Daria? I am not prepared for this … What can I possibly say that will help? What am I supposed to do?”

  Kyla raised the back of his hand to her lips. “Marik chose you, Ni-Cio—no one else. I know it seems unbearable, but he died defending our freedom. His last words were, ‘Lead them well’ … he knew that you would . . .”

  The storm began to play itself out and Kyla watched as Ni-Cio slowly raised his head. His violet eyes blazed with an inner light and he tenderly released her hand. Stepping into the midst of their people, his deep voice broke the stillness. It came, low and strong, with confident reassurance. His words were a soothing balm that imparted hope and comfort. “You fought well and bravely this day. That any of us remain is a testament to your courage and the strength of your spirits.”

  Hot, silent tears slid down Kyla’s cheeks and mixed with the cooling caress of rain. She bowed her head in mourning. The wind subsided to a refreshing breeze and Ni-Cio’s voice rose with conviction. “We will find rest within the walls of Evan’s home. And we will stay until we regain our strength. When we are ready, we will leave to rebuild our home … but it is here and it is now that we begin to heal our grief.”

  Kyla felt the raw ache of hi
s soul. Ni-Cio’s voice trembled. “We cannot and we will not let our sorrow dishonor the memories of those who gave their lives that we might continue.”

  Ni-Cio lifted his face to the night sky. Drops of rain glistened on his cheeks and lingered upon his lips. Kyla, too, savored the sweet, pure taste of the fresh water. When her brother began to intone the first tremulous notes of the sacred Song of Passing, she let the water christen her parched mouth. One by one, Atlantean voices joined in a mystical, loving tribute, and the grief in every heart found an outlet in the ethereal song.

  Blanketed by soft mist, Evan stood apart from the group, his somber gray eyes closed and his head bowed. Kyla knew his anguish and she left the solemn proximity of her people to stand next to the solitary topsider. She gently took his hand in hers. Her touch, and the haunting voices echoing across the sea, must have stirred depths of remembrance in Evan, for together, they lifted their voices as one.

  Churning at full speed, the immense freighter sliced effortlessly through the relentless rise and fall of the ink-black swells. Dark waves thundered over the bow and crashed onto the slippery steel decking, trailing clots of gray foam. Deep inside the bowels of Travlor’s ship, in a cramped, locked room, Daria sat alone. Hour after agonizing hour, she desperately repeated the same thought-form in an endless stream as she rocked back and forth on the hard bunk. “Ni-Cio, I am here … please answer! Ni-Cio, I am here … please answer!”

  Over and over Daria intoned the single plea until her control finally slipped. Beyond all endurance, she could deny her exhaustion no longer. Her cries faded as heavy lids closed over red-rimmed eyes, and her head nodded forward. A heartrending sob escaped her lips, the forlorn sound echoing off the cabin’s hard, gray walls.

  Wrapped within the utter silence of sleep that comes before dreaming, Daria’s body drifted down to settle on top of a scratchy, woolen blanket. Even in sleep, the comfort of oblivion eluded her; almost immediately, haunted dreams flickered in foggy, disjointed patches.

  Daria mumbled and twitched in her sleep, blindly chasing scores of elusive shadow people who were impossible to catch, impossible to reach. The horror and grief that had descended upon her waking world found their frightening counterparts in the nightmare illusions of her dreams.

  On the bridge, Travlor swept a black gaze over the rolling vista. His ragged voice ripped through the night sounds, startling the man hired to captain the ship. “How long before we make port?”

  Fear was not a familiar companion to the weather-worn seaman, but the commanding figure standing next to him inspired a healthy dose of caution, so he carefully weighed his answer before replying. “Barring any more weather, and maintaining this speed, we should dock late Saturday afternoon.” Studying Travlor’s brooding countenance, the captain longed for that day as the next set of waves washed over the bow of the ship.

  “See that we do.”

  Satisfied that his orders would be executed fully and without hesitation, Travlor turned from the horizontal line of watch windows and quietly exited the bridge. Winding through the narrow hallways and spiraling downward, the Atlantean glided silently past several decks until he came to a stop in front of the door to his prisoner’s makeshift cell.

  Listening intently for any sounds of activity within the cabin, he leaned a hardened shoulder against the cold, sweating steel and placed a bony forefinger above the door. Slowly he traced a line through the beads of moisture. A symbol so ancient as to be lost to any but this one Atlantean flared briefly, then was lost again amid the encroaching condensation.

  He parted his thin lips in the ghost of a grisly smile—one that never quite reached the corners of his mouth. Then, as silently as he had come, Travlor slipped away, melting into the nighttime shadows of his ship.

  The freighter was nowhere in sight. Nothing but a vast, endless, barren sea stretched beyond the limits of his anxious gaze. In the desperate rush to vacate Atlantis and usher everyone to shelter, it had not even occurred to Evan to look for signs of Travlor’s command ship.

  Disgusted, he dropped the heavy binoculars back into their place against his chest. Briskly rubbing the back of his neck, his mind slid back to the previous night.

  Having expended the last of its might, the storm had scuttled into trailing wispy clouds and disappeared into the fabric of the night. The landscape had lain exposed in an eerie white glow emanating from the dispassionate face of the full moon.

  He had reluctantly released Kyla’s hand, along with the fleeting peace that had settled into his heart, as the echoing tones of their poignant lamentation mixed with traces of the cool night breeze. At last, everything had faded to stillness. Walking the short distance, he stood before Ni-Cio, and the hushed tones of his voice broke the reverent silence, bringing with it the necessary intrusion of reality. “We should get to the compound; this day has already been too long in the making.”

  A slight nod was the only indication he received that Ni-Cio had heard. Falling behind Evan’s sluggish lead, everyone picked their way cautiously over the rocky terrain. Not a sound was uttered as, in single file, the group carefully ascended the hazardous, rain-slick trail.

  The worn out band of survivors finally approached the abandoned compound and Evan shuddered with revulsion. The thought of occupying the same space that had so recently sheltered the savage mercenaries of Travlor’s army caused him to reconsider. But whatever aversions he felt, the needs of his friends took precedence; with no other options to offer the displaced Atlanteans, Evan clamped down on his feelings of repugnance.

  Once inside, he organized another round of decontamination and separated people into groups, giving detailed instructions on the use of the soap and rags. After assuring himself that everyone could operate the showers, Evan opened the kitchens. He scrounged through the pots and pans and grabbed a stack of the largest ones. He quickly located a huge box of detergent. Kicking the screen door open, he dumped everything outside, filled each pot with soap and water, then used a stick to stir in the bioskins before leaving them to soak overnight.

  He returned to find Ni-Cio and Aris raiding the pantries. Aris had uncovered a cache of stout Greek beer and was filling mugs for those arriving from their showers. Evan grabbed one of the nearest tankards and took a huge swig; it was the best beer he had ever tasted. “Aris, you just saved my life,” he declared, as the ghost of a smile played over his lips.

  His comment was met with murmurs of assent by others who had already sampled the potent brew. With the beer flowing, the three men cobbled together a simple yet filling meal. They handed out steaming bowls of thick vegetable soup and placed a huge wheel of peasant cheese along with warm pita bread on the main table. Everyone helped themselves and the hearty fare was gratefully consumed in fatigued silence.

  During the meal, the tattered remnants of Atlantis’s families quietly bonded, merging into new clans. After they had finished eating, they trudged toward the rundown cabins. Ni-Cio sent a final thought to his departing friends. “Find your rest … Though we have been through the very fires of hell on this grisly day, we will mend our grievous hurt … Know that all will be well . . .”

  Hearing the last door groan shut, Evan yielded to his own bone-deep exhaustion. He found his cabin and lurched through the doorway, barely making it to the sagging bunk before his body collapsed onto the naked mattress. Sleep consumed him before his eyes were even closed.

  Morning’s first light had pushed roughly through the dingy, dirt-crusted window and jerked Evan from his dreamless slumber. He hadn’t yet registered a breath when he remembered the enormous freighter that he and Travlor had purchased. A sudden rush of adrenaline pushed him to his feet and sent him out the door.

  Near the precipitous edge of the cliff they had skirted the night before, Ni-Cio and Aris stared in the direction Evan pointed. “It was anchored right there. But I was so intent on getting everyone to safety that it never even crossed my mind.” Evan
shook his head. “I have absolutely no idea where he could have gone, which means we have no clue how to find Daria.”

  Ocean breezes tugged at Ni-Cio’s raven hair, loosening several strands from its binding. With an anxious swipe of his hand, he batted the hair away and his steely, violet eyes glinted from behind his protective glasses. They were all wound tight as razor wire, but Ni-Cio’s gaze was riveted on the location Evan had indicated; if sheer strength of will could bring the ship back, Evan believed that Ni-Cio would have already brought her to shore.

  “Travlor is blocking her thoughts. By the gods, I should have taken that man when he first set foot on this accursed island!” The sliver-thin strand of will that Ni-Cio was hanging onto was about to snap.

  Aris knew his friend well and sensed how close Ni-Cio was to breaking. He approached his friend and placed a hand on his arm. The volatile Atlantean’s posture reflected a depth of calm that Evan knew he didn’t feel. “The point is moot, Ni-Cio. What has passed is done. Daria will find a way to break through his constraint. When she does, we will be ready.”

  Evan nodded. “My father grows older with each breath; although he is still strong, he cannot continue to block her thoughts forever.”

  Shaking Aris away, Ni-Cio lifted his arms in a wild gesture that took in the limitless scope of the vacant horizon. “Do you not understand? Daria has no way of knowing any of us have survived. He could have taken her anywhere. And if he compels her to attend his health, it could be forever!”

  Outraged, he turned and stomped to the edge of the crumbling precipice. A stiff, salt-laden wind raced up the rocky heights and swirled through his loose clothing, lifting them in a maniacal dance. Fleeing its tie, his hair rose like black whips, angrily lashing a countenance writhing with fiery stripes of red and black.