by Kim McMahon
Theodora was silent for a long minute.
“I’d laugh at your story—anyone would,” she finally said. “And yet, I don’t see any other way to explain the things you know—and they fit precisely with what I know.
“Still, you’re wrong in thinking that the head and the jewel you call Eurydice must be reunited,” Theodora went on. “I’m sorry for him. But she is precious beyond comprehension—he is only a container, a shield that protected her until she came to us. She has no need of him any longer.”
“That’s what I thought at first, but then I heard his side of it,” Artemis said. “They’re each part of a whole, literally made for each other, and it’s such an incredible love story. Come on, Theodora—haven’t you ever loved anyone like that?”
The older woman flinched—only a slight tremor, but Artemis was sure she saw it.
“What has happened is ordained by the Goddess,” Theodora said, avoiding the question. “The sacred ankh has been given into our guardianship. She is freed from her bondage—we will keep her safe forever.”
“But will you? By my time, she’s disappeared completely. Orpheus has been stolen again and again—why not her, too?”
This time, Theodora’s eyes flashed angrily. “How dare you suggest that the Sisters of Isis will fail!”
“I’m not saying you failed—only that a great many things can happen in almost a thousand years,” Artemis looked up at Theodora, her eyes brightening. “Look, here’s an idea—why don’t we ask her about all this?”
“Ask her? The very essence of the Goddess? Do you think she’d deign to answer the questions of mere mortals, just to satisfy our curiosity?”
“We don’t know, do we? Besides, it’s not just curiosity—it’s her future. It’s all our futures.”
Theodora swept her hand out in a dismissive gesture. “Enough of your foolishness. Now go to sleep. I have much to do, to fittingly welcome the Goddess.”
Artemis jumped forward to the edge of her seat. “Oh, Theodora, please—can’t I see Eurydice?”
“What? Certainly not—none may see her but initiates.”
“But that’s exactly what I want to be—an initiate. Like I told you, I’ve just never had the chance.”
Theodora sighed in exasperation—a sound that Artemis knew well. She got that reaction a lot.
“Impossible,” Theodora said. “It takes years of preparation, and finally an arduous test. Many fail and few succeed.”
“I’ve already done years of preparation—not the same kind as you, but I’ve learned everything I possibly could about it all, and I’m quite resourceful in other ways. Won’t you at least let me try?”
Theodora’s face seemed to soften a little, but she still shook her head firmly.
“When I said that many fail, child—that failure means they’re never seen again. I like you, Artemis, brash little goose that you are. I won’t have your death on my hands.”
“If I’m going to die in this land anyway, better that way than any other I can think of,” Artemis shot back.
Theodora shook her head again, and stalked out the chamber door. Artemis jumped up and ran after her.
“Put yourself in my place, Theodora—won’t you?” she called hotly after the retreating figure. “Suppose someone had refused to give you the chance?”
Theodora paused, just for a second, but then walked on.
Artemis hurried back to the couch, threw herself down, and began to cry, deep wrenching sobs—first of frustration, and then of fear.
She closed her eyes and concentrated with all her might on sending a message to Adam and Orpheus. Find me—oh, find me, please.
TWENTY-TWO
The Goddess—could She really have a hand in this? Theodora wondered anxiously as she returned to her own chamber. The thought was frightening, as if she was treading in a realm where no mortals—not even herself, the head of the Sisters of Isis—belonged.
And yet, what else could it be? It surely wasn’t coincidence that Artemis had appeared here so mysteriously, at precisely this time—and that she knew the great secret of the sacred ankh.
This seemed to have all the signs of being the next chapter in a story that had started during Theodora’s lonely childhood in Scotland. Farfetched though it was, at least she had to think it through.
She sat at her writing table, made of English oak and shipped to the Holy Land by some Crusader’s wife who had never claimed it. It was one of a few personal possessions that Theodora had carefully selected over the years, along with sculptures, paintings, vessels, and rich rugs. The Sisters’ lifestyle was quite Spartan, but they weren’t ascetics—they were women as much as they were warriors, and they all kept special ornaments and mementos.
With her hand shaking just slightly, she reached into a drawer that she rarely ever opened, and took out a rolled parchment. The writing on it was her own—a copy of a strange runic script, in the crude hand she’d used as a girl, before she’d gotten any education.
Theodora held it close and shut her eyes, remembering how it all had happened.
Her mother had died when she was young, leaving her an only child. Her father was a Scottish knight with a noble title but little land or wealth, who was usually off at some war or another. She’d been raised by the few servants in their cold, drafty, rundown old manor that was only called a castle because it was the largest building for miles around and belonged to a laird. The misty, desolate highlands were her playground.
It was there that she’d found the ancient stone—a cromlech far taller than she was, set upright in the earth—with its baffling runic inscription.
No one seemed to have any idea what it meant, or to care. The only person she knew who could read and write, just barely, was the priest in the nearby village. He had forbidden her to get any learning—such things were not for women—and when she’d asked him about the inscription, he’d told her angrily to stay away from such ungodly pagan evil, and sentenced her to penance of bread and water, plus a sound beating.
Of course that had only inflamed her curiosity, and she’d snuck away whenever she could to spend hours at the foot of the great stone, staring at the runes and trying to unlock their secret—certain, with a girlish fantasy, that this was the key to a magical life far from the dismal reality where she was trapped.
One day when she was thirteen—just the same age as Artemis—she’d looked up to see a figure approaching out of the mist, an older woman known as Jenny O’ The Moors, because she wandered them incessantly. Jenny was gray-haired, neither young nor old, and wore a cloak the color of the fields. There was talk that she was a witch and the priest fumed against her, warning the local people to shun her. But they went to her in secret for healing and love potions, and while her appearance was stern and forbidding, she’d always been kindly to Theodora. They’d crossed paths many times, but Jenny never spoke at any length—just a greeting and a few words. But on this day she stopped.
The Feast of Beltane was coming soon, she said. On that night, Theodora should slip away from the castle and sleep here at the base of the stone. Perhaps her questions would be answered. That was all—Jenny walked on as usual.
The excited girl spent the next days in an agony of suspense—was it just the ramblings of a crazy old woman, or did Jenny really know something? At last the appointed night came. Toward midnight, long after the castle was asleep, Theodora snuck out furtively with a blanket and a little food. She huddled up against the stone, alone and frightened, with the chilly mist and the sharp highland wind biting at her face. Sleep seemed impossible.
But she must have dreamed—because sometime during those dark hours, the runes took on a faint emerald glow.
And this time, as she stared at them, they suddenly came clear in her mind.
In head that speak, neath widow peak, the secret lies enclosed
A touch the key, twill set it free, Her glory to behold
But over the next days, her joy at the revelation faded—as the
realization sank in that she still didn’t have the slightest idea what the message actually meant. Along with that came the fear that it was only another part of her fantasy, made up by her imagination. Still, she clung to it stubbornly.
Soon afterward, her father returned home—but only briefly, as usual, and this time with alarming news. He intended to sell his meager holdings and journey to Outremer—the Holy Land. The Second Crusade was over and the Third not yet brewing. The Christian army still held the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and there was a constant need for reinforcements. But the truly important thing was opportunity. It was a rich, warm country where land and plunder could be taken by the sword, and a knight could carve himself out an estate, wealth, and a life undreamed of in the harsh clime of Scotland with its tightly controlled fiefs. From the glow in his eyes as he spoke, she recognized even at her young age an element of fantasy like her own.
He had arranged to leave her in a convent but she begged to go with him, declaring that she would wither away and die there. At first he refused, but while he was a hard man, he had a heart, and she was his only child. The Holy Land was relatively peaceful at that time, and the journey was relatively safe. Streams of pilgrims flocked to Jerusalem, which had an established European community. He relented, and booked her passage on a boat with other women who were traveling to join their husbands.
Theodora arrived safely. Her father, who had sailed ahead of her, did not. His ship was lost in a storm, and he was never heard from again.
Her own dream seemed every bit as doomed. She was young and alone, with no money for the return passage and no home to go back to, anyway. She quickly learned that a girl like her had only two options: to spend her life as a menial servant in a wealthy household—or fall prey to the vicious scum who trafficked in human flesh.
She was perilously close to the second of those when fate intervened in the form of a Hospitaller Knight named Cristof. He was not at all a gallant figure in shining armor—he’d grown up even poorer than she had, and become a roughhewn man aged beyond his years by hardship and battle. Perhaps because of that, he was compassionate, especially toward the helpless—and he was one of the rare men trusted by the Sisters of Isis. He’d wrested Theodora away from the circling vultures and arranged for the Sisters to take her in. They had given to her unsparingly, teaching her fighting, healing, and book learning. She had excelled at everything, and now she was their leader.
And she owed it all to Cristof.
Come on, Theodora—haven’t you ever loved anyone like that?
She brushed the thought aside hurriedly. She rarely allowed herself that kind of sentiment, and there was no time for it now. Very important things were happening, and they were all happening at once.
Living with the Sisters, she had learned about the Goddess—and she’d come to believe that she’d been touched by Her mysterious hand. Who else could have sent Jenny O’ The Moors to her, and unveiled the message to her on that magical highlands night? What else could Her glory refer to? The verse seemed to suggest that it meant an actual object, but what could it be, what form did it take? While she puzzled over it endlessly through the years, studied all the lore she could find, she got no closer to any deeper understanding.
But then, not long ago, a spy brought a rumor that the Grand Vizier had stolen a head that could speak—and the puzzle began to crystallize. Widow peak could mean the hairline at the center of the forehead, she realized. A touch would set free the secret: Her glory.
Was the Goddess’s unseen hand continuing to guide her life? Had it brought her to the Holy Land and the Sisters of Isis, and finally to this miraculous conjunction of circumstances where that glory was within her grasp?
Or was it only her childish fantasy returning yet again, this time to shame a grown, powerful woman?
She learned that the Grand Vizier—a man as suspicious as he was cruel and greedy—kept the head in the pommel of his saddle. Getting it away from him would be next to impossible, but that was what Assassins excelled at. Theodora had planned the attack, carefully orchestrating the Sisters and rehearsing her own role. All would depend on a smokescreen of confusion, and even then, she would only have a few seconds. The risk of failure, even of death for some or all of them, was huge—and maybe for nothing. Was there really a glorious object, the essence of the Goddess, inside the head?
But then came the moment when she caught the pommel, found the head, and pressed the hairline’s center—and the ankh popped into her hands.
If Theodora was capable of swooning, she’d have fallen off her horse at that instant.
She’d closed the opening with another swift touch, popped the head back into the pommel, and tossed it into the melee of knights to distract them from pursuit. Praise to the Goddess, all the Sisters had gotten safely away.
Yet another major worry came along soon. When she’d dared to take a glimpse of the precious jewel—it seemed to be entirely ordinary. It was beautiful, yes—a rich emerald green color, and made of an exquisite stone or metal that she’d never seen. Still, there was no magical quality to it like she’d imagined—no glow or emanation, no tingle through her hand.
But the essence of the Goddess must be regarded with great reverence, she scolded herself, not just hasty glances. With proper ceremony, She would reveal her glory.
Or could it be that somehow, Artemis held the answer? That the Goddess had ordained the girl’s presence here, and the outcome depended on that?
Then there was Artemis herself—full of wild imagination, headstrong, eager to rush in like a fool where angels feared to tread. But smart, winsome, and eerily perceptive.
Put yourself in my place, Theodora—suppose someone had refused to give you the chance.
Damn! Theodora thought. It was another shot that had hit the mark in her heart with deadly aim. How could the child see into her so clearly?
Because, came the answer, she’s so much like you.
Theodora paced around the chamber for a few more minutes, warring within herself. Finally, she slapped her hand down hard on the desk, then reached for a quill and parchment. Quickly, she wrote out an English translation of another verse, one that all the would-be initiates of the Sisters were given as they embarked on their ultimate test.
It was their only weapon—their only hope of survival.
In darkness find flint
With fire find glint
The strikes must be fierce
The false hearts to pierce
Carrying the scroll, she strode back to Artemis’s chamber.
When Artemis looked up from where she lay on the couch, Theodora could tell that she’d been crying. But the girl did her best to hide it, putting on a brave face.
“Memorize this precisely—every letter of it,” Theodora said, thrusting the scroll into her hand. “Then try to sleep and freshen your mind. It’s up to you whether to go on with the trial. I’ll come back in a few hours.”
If the Goddess truly had sent her Theodora thought, the test would tell.
TWENTY-THREE
Adam was buried deep in a dream that had him covered in cold sweat. He could see a girl—not her face, but her small, slight figure and long pale hair. She was dressed all in black, and she seemed to be in an abyss or cave that was even blacker—to be trapped there with no escape, not able to go back but afraid to go forward. It even seemed that he could hear her voice in his mind: Adam, help me, please—I’m so lost and alone! You’re the problem solver—what should I do?
Stay calm, he told her. Think it through. Get every bit of information you can, study it until it starts to make sense, then take one careful step at a time. Most of all, don’t give up.
He could tell that she didn’t hear him—she was falling into a panic, flailing her arms like she was beating against a wall or throwing things. He tried shouting, tried to run toward her, but his voice wouldn’t work and he couldn’t move.
Then he realized: Take your own advice, idiot. He stopped struggling and concentr
ated with everything he had, focusing his words like a laser beam to her mind.
Her frantic movements slowed. She lifted her head like she was listening, started to turn her face in his direction—
But now another voice was babbling in his ear, and a hand was shaking him. Like a deep sea diver, he left the dream on the bottom and swam up toward the surface of consciousness. The dream was gone, leaving only a blurred memory. It was time to get up and feed the cattle, he thought drowsily.
But this wasn’t his familiar old bunk at the ranch—it was much softer and he was wrapped in luxurious covers, which he’d managed to wind around himself so thoroughly he was practically hogtied. Plus the voice wasn’t his father’s. As he forced open his sleepy eyes, he saw that the person shaking him was a dark-haired boy about his own age.
Then he remembered where he was—and what was happening. That woke him up the rest of way, fast. He thrashed free of the bedding, and Mustafa let him go.
“Hurry, Adam—we mustn’t keep the Sultan waiting,” Mustafa said anxiously. Adam’s feet were already moving when they hit the floor.
In one way, getting up here was like at the ranch—the starry night sky was just starting to lighten, although he was looking at it through the arched stone windows of Saladin’s palace. It was also surprisingly chilly—not like a real winter morning in Montana, but it definitely could have been October. No wonder he’d burrowed under the covers so hard.
His excitement was bursting at the seams—but he shared Mustafa’s anxiety, too. This was a very important day—the most important of his young life. He had a mission to carry out for the great Saladin, and everything depended on how well he did it.
He followed Mustafa through the quick morning routine—a cold water wash in a stone basin that finished waking him up, a visit to a primitive but sparkling clean latrine flushed by a trough of constantly running water, and breakfast of a yogurt-type dish studded with dried fruit, along with bread and tea—not what he was used to, but it tasted fine and he hoovered it up just like Mustafa. Then they pulled on clean outfits of tunics and pants that were laid out waiting for them. He remembered yesterday’s scorching afternoon—with the sun now topping the horizon, the day was already warming up—and he had to admit that this kind of clothing made a lot more sense here than the jeans and cowboy boots he was used to. Still, he was glad none of his friends from home were around to see him.