He continued to wait, albeit impatiently. After collecting their bags, Eddie was supposed to meet him on the upper deck. What was taking the boy so long? Silas carried the most important possession wrapped in a bundle under his arm: the book. The crate would remain on board for a while. Depending on what he discovered from the book’s translation, he might be in need of other transportation back to England. With the success of the particle cannon, he proved himself an asset to the crew, so he hoped this would be enough to get them passage to at least a major port city, preferably within Europe, but he would settle for wherever she would take him that could get him home. After all, he still had to finish the ship schematics.
At last Eddie clambered out of the passageway and onto the deck, his knapsack obviously packed in haste, as it bulged oddly in places. He lugged Silas’ bag along as well.
Silas approached the boy and took his own belongings. “Come then, Edison. Let’s see what these wise men can tell us about our… antique.” Despite his relative comfort on board the Antigone’s Wrath, he was still wary of other ears.
They disembarked, traversed the dock, and headed up the dirt road. Since this was the way everyone else went, it stood to reason that the monastery lay in that direction. When they rounded the bend, the path before them wound up into the brown, broken mountains. Snow capped some of the higher peaks, but hadn’t touched this lower elevation yet. What little there was in the way of vegetation was limited to sparse, short scrub brush and tall, thin, grassy projections shooting out of the cracks in the rock. There wasn’t much to see until they’d climbed for a while and emerged onto a small plateau that overlooked the lake. From here, the water was clear as glass and reflected the brilliant blue of the cloudless sky. The hulking metal shape of the Antigone’s Wrath seemed very out of place in this beautiful setting. Silas turned and looked behind him. The path, bending one last time, led to the gates of the Zhuqing monastery.
The building was perfectly integrated into its surroundings. Large, carved boulders sat on either side of the path before the massive grey-brown archway welcomed visitors to the stairs up to the main structure. From there, stone walls stretched and wrapped around the mountain, following with the curves of the earth, and behind these walls, the temple itself penetrated up into the unobstructed sky. Eddie and Silas passed through the archway and started up the giant staircase. The monastery loomed above them, each of the five levels of the temple topped with the sloping, upward-curving roofs that dominated the architecture of the Orient. Sunlight glinted off of the occasional gilded accent, complimenting the red of the roof tiles and chipping paint of the door frames. Most of what greeted them, however, was unforgiving gray-brown stone.
At the top of the one hundred and eight steps, two monks waited. They regarded Silas and Eddie without any hint of judgment. When Silas reached the landing, he dropped his bag and approached them. He put his hands together, as he had seen Rachel and Iris do, and bowed to them, but said nothing as he was still catching his breath. They returned the greeting, patiently allowing him time to recover. When Eddie noted the exchange, he did his best to replicate the motions. Instead of a smooth, slow bow, the boy’s movements were quick and jerky, and the sudden shifting of his pack nearly caused him to topple onto their hosts. Still placid, the men waited for Silas to speak.
Wishing he had some water, Silas coughed and took one last deep breath. “Peace be with you.” He bowed again. “I’ve come in hopes of finding one who could translate an ancient text for me.”
“Peace be with you, traveler. You are most welcome here.” The slightly taller monk on the right addressed him. “We learned of your needs from our sister student. I am Damcho. This is Gendun. If you require anything during your stay here, please do not hesitate to ask us.”
“Thank you for your kindness. I am Silas Jensen. This is my apprentice, Edison Maclaren. I ask forgiveness if he or I offend in any way. This is our first trip to Tibet, and Eddie’s first even out of England.”
“Then we shall try to make it a pleasant visit for you.” Damcho extended his hand and motioned the newcomers inside. “Allow us to show you to your room.”
They followed the monks through the gated walls, across the dusty courtyard, up the temple steps through the main entrance, and down long hallways with door after wooden door. Occasionally they passed a grand portal with more gilding, but these always meant a turn down another hallway. Silas kept count; three right turns, two left, and a final right. Four doors down the last corridor, they came to a stop. Gendun opened the door in front of them and indicated they should go in.
“We cannot offer much, but we give you these accommodations. If you wait here, someone will fetch you after the midday call to observance. There is water in the pitcher for any ablutions. If there is nothing else you require…?” Damcho’s question trailed off.
Silas smiled gratefully. “No, thank you. We appreciate your hospitality.”
The monks bowed one last time, turned and left.
The space was very sparse indeed, including only two sleeping pallets and a small table between with a basin and water pitcher resting on top. Eddie’s face displayed his displeasure with the room, but Silas held up a hand, silencing any complaint he might make. He was simply grateful for a stationary bed tonight.
“Are you sure you do not wish a private audience, Captain Sterling?” Jamyang regarded Danton and Iris. “This conversation might be more personal than you wish to have others overhear.”
Rachel nodded her head firmly. “In this matter I will have no secrets from these two. Not only are they essential to my crew, but they are my closest friends.”
He acquiesced. “As you wish.”
He invited them to sit before him in the meditation room. Following the midday meditations, Jamyang granted Rachel her requested audience. They sat, cross-legged, on small, thin rugs in bright colors, facing the tranquil countenance of a Buddhist Lama. Smooth stone columns lined the long, thin room. Within each pillar, alcoves housed various statues of the Buddha. A surprisingly light breeze filtered in from the floor to ceiling open archways. Here, on the uppermost level of the temple, one would expect to be blown over by the chilly Himalayan wind, but such was not the case. The high place was nestled so well amongst the boulders on the mountain that it only allowed for appropriate ventilation.
Jamyang sat on a wooden platform at the head of the room. “Now, what is it you wish to know?”
Rachel didn’t answer immediately. She had a hundred questions she’d like to ask, but needed to ask the right one first. “Thank you for the audience. I think, above all else, I must ask about this.” She pulled the chain from around her neck and held it, ring dangling, in front of her face, “Why has it been carried by my family?” She lowered the necklace, and waited for his answer.
He nodded. “Your family and that ring have roots in the same story.” The Lama closed his eyes and gave a heavy sigh, as though he were taking up a great burden. “The item was forged out of grief and hatred. I take it you have discovered its capabilities?”
Rachel nodded wordlessly and replaced the chain around her neck.
He began the story in earnest. “There once was an island nation whose name has been erased from history. They were a peaceful, but very advanced people. Because they knew the harm their technology could do in the wrong hands, they guarded their home fiercely and extended no help to warring lands. Even the pleas of kings and queens fell on deaf ears: they would be no party to violence.”
“What do you mean by ‘advanced?’ What sort of technology did they have that was so much greater than all others?” Rachel asked, dubious.
Jamyang shrugged. “It is unknown the nature of their power, but the legends speak of a command of lightning, a vast city extending beneath the water, and communication without sound or sight. As I’ve said, only a handful of texts exist today that make any reference at all to this part of history, and those are vague at best. Men were primitive then. Accurate records were not ke
pt.”
He gave her a pointed look, as if to discourage any further questions. “To continue, on the other side of the world, a queen feared for her people. The green fields and forests of her home were being threatened by outside forces. So great was that threat, that she sent her only son to throw himself upon the mercy of the Gods of the Western Seas to assist them.
“She could not spare an army to see him safely there. The boy was sent with only the company of his warrior sister, two strong men, and an aging advisor. With the help of seafaring people and after a perilous journey, the young prince at last arrived to make his request. However, the expedition took its toll on the boy’s health and he fell ill. He made his request, but was denied assistance. Spirit broken and body weak, the prince and his company left empty handed.
“The journey home was arduous, and, unable to sustain himself further, the prince died mere days before reaching his mother. Already worn from years of battling her enemies and worrying about the safety of her children, the queen could bear no more pain. When her daughter presented the body of the young prince, rage and regret filled her. She swore then to use every moment and every resource she had to bringing down the cold, selfish Gods of the Western Seas, even as her kingdom collapsed around her.
“She sacrificed everything to create that which you hold now. It contains the magic of every people she met that would teach her. When she told others of her plight, they, blinded by jealousy and greed, assisted her madness. Through jungles and swamplands and deserts she went, collecting pieces of magic from every part of the world. To bind all these things together, she needed one last ingredient: harmony.
“This is what drew her here.” The Lama’s shoulders slumped. “My predecessors thought that if they could teach her our ways, she would see her mistakes and let go of the past. By the time she came to us, she had nothing left of her former life. Her land was overtaken, her friends abandoned her one by one, and even her daughters tired of her madness and trying to help her. Our order took her in. They tried to teach her love and peace. After ten years with us, her soul seemed to quiet. They thought she was ready for knowledge without destruction…” He trailed off, seemingly in pain, as though he were reliving a memory, rather than telling ancient history, and he stared off into the air. “They were wrong.”
“The old queen spent her years in the monastery creating a book of all she learned. The last piece she needed, the Harmony, she found while here. An ancient chant, used to bring internal balance, would allow her to forge a weapon to control her enemy’s machines. Possessing this final piece, she fled north, in search of a master metalsmith. I cannot say for sure that she found the one she sought, but someone was successful in creating that ring.
“With the weapon ready, the old queen set out for her final assault on the Gods of the Western Seas. She took no army, only a small boat to bear herself hence. As they saw no danger, the island’s patrols let her pass unhindered.
“Her vengeance came down upon those people with a fury more than forty years in the making. All of the inhabitants, save one, were lost, swallowed by the ocean. There was a young boy who caught the queen’s eye. Reminded of her lost son, she took him with her as she left the island sinking beneath the waves.
“The boy grew, the queen raising him in the old ways of magic. There was always hesitation in him, as though something deeply ingrained did not trust this power. He never knew why he felt this way, until the night his guardian became ill. The old queen’s body was failing, and, plagued with remorse, confessed to the young man all she had done. She passed the ring to him, asking that it be destroyed. Regret, companion to vengeance, found her at last. She took her final breath before she could impart to him the way to destroy the weapon she created.
“Overwhelmed by loss for the people he couldn’t remember and the only mother he had known, the young man swore to never use magic again. Eventually, he took a wife, who bore his children, and he raised them to distrust magic and any who used it. Of course, he spent much time away from home, in hopes of finding some way to destroy the ring, so while his words were often absent, the blood in their veins remembered. It wasn’t until the ring was passed from the father to child that the whole story was told.”
Jamyang’s eyes refocused and he looked at Rachel. “You must have guessed by now, Captain Sterling, that you are a descendant of the Gods of the Western Seas. You have an abhorrence to Aether Manipulation you cannot explain, yes?”
She swallowed, but was unable to moisten her tongue enough to speak. Instead, she nodded mutely.
“Your mother was unable to pass this story on to you, as her early death prevented it. You were too young to be told, and so the chain was broken. Instead of passing from parent to child, the story was given to me, the ring to another your mother trusted. Neither of us knew who the other was, for fear that should one of us be caught, we could not reveal the other even under torture.” He sat straight again, his burden lifted from him.
“The book the queen kept, could that be what our Mr. Jensen possesses?” Iris asked.
Jamyang thought for a moment. “I don’t think this is impossible, but it is unlikely. There is a rumor that one of the descendants in the line confided some ill intentions to his brother, thinking he would support him. While that individual met a rather swift end, it could be that what your friend has is the product of that unsavory idea. I will have to translate the text to know for sure.”
“Yes, why don’t you do that now?” A sneering, familiar voice jarred Rachel, and she jumped to a crouch, flinging her hand out so her small pistol slid into her palm. She tumbled to cover as a shot rang out, smoke and debris flying into the air as a bullet struck the rug she recently occupied. From behind a pillar, Rachel chanced a glance to gauge what she was up against. Men in black suits and bowler hats crowded into the room. At the very back, near the entryway, stood Mr. Mustache with a gun to Silas Jensen’s head. She dodged another shot as she ducked back behind the stone. She softly thumped her head back into the pillar, cursing herself for not setting guards. Nowhere was safe. How could she have been so careless?
“My dear Captain Sterling.” The contempt in his words set her teeth on edge. “So good to see you again. Won’t you join us?”
“I’d love to,” she called back to him, “but I’m afraid I don’t accept invitations from strange little men with squirrelly facial hair.” She paused, hearing a snicker or two in response to her quip. “Also, I’m not sure how you were raised, but you should be told that it’s considered very bad form to shoot at people with whom you’d like to have a conversation.”
“Perhaps I was unclear, Captain Sterling.” There was that derisive emphasis on the word “captain” again. “Allow me to rephrase. If you do not throw down your weapon and come out in the next five seconds, I will begin executing your companions…” He trailed off, and she heard the audible clicking as he drew back the hammer on his gun. “Starting with the woman. Five.”
Rachel cursed again and sighed.
“Four.”
She unfastened the pistol from her wrist.
“Three.”
“All right!” she yelled at him. “I’ll come quietly. Hold your fire.”
Rachel tossed her weapon towards the center of the room and stepped out from behind the column. Danton, Iris, the Lama, and several monks were huddled together, nervously eyeing the guns pointed at them. No fewer than eight black-suited men held them hostage, weapons at the ready. One of them grabbed Rachel’s arm and tossed her towards the clump of prisoners. With only a slight stumble, she managed to maintain her upright posture and trained her eyes on the leader.
“So, Mr. Mustache, we meet again,” she said coolly. More men gathered in the doorway.
“What… What did you call me?” His voice cracked as the moniker registered.
She shrugged. “As you never properly introduced yourself, I took the liberty of naming you. It seemed fitting.”
A muscle in the corner of his eye twitc
hed. “You may call me Brother Mortimer Cross.” He gave Silas a shove towards the crowd. “Now, let’s have a look at that book, shall we?”
Brother Cross snapped his fingers, and a monk carrying the tome was thrust forward, encouraged at gunpoint to continue to the front of the room. A carved stone podium scraped noisily along the floor as it was placed in Jamyang’s vacated position. The monk hefted the book up to the surface before skittering away as quickly as he could.
“I assume you possess the knowledge required to translate this text,” he stated, motioning to Jamyang. “I’ve taken the liberty of providing you with a scribe and all the materials necessary to complete your task.”
“And should I refuse?” The Lama’s voice quavered almost imperceptibly.
Without blinking, Mortimer Cross aimed his pistol at a monk creeping along the walls in an attempt to reach the exit. He fired a single shot, and the man crumpled to the floor in a heap. Rachel flinched at the sudden noise. She hadn’t expected him to fire without any warning. The dead monk’s unblinking eyes stared at her, blood running from the hole in his temple and pooling around his face. She looked away, disgusted at the utter disregard for life.
Jamyang cleared his throat. “It will be as you say,” he said, bowing his head.
Brother Cross snapped his fingers again, and a man stepped out from behind him, not wearing the black suit that defined the men of the Brotherhood, but a disheveled, pea green suit instead. He was trembling, and Rachel wondered how he would keep a steady hand to write the translation.
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