by Kim McMahon
Somehow, that helped a lot.
“Bring it on,” she breathed, tightening her grip on the hilt—braced for a barrage of ravenous piranhas leaping up out of the pool, or a lurking monster snaking out tentacles to drag her down, or at the very least, a sneaky shove from behind that would knock her face forward into the water, which would turn out to be acid.
But instead, a thought came into her mind that seemed to be put there. This wasn’t like imagining Adam’s voice giving her advice—this was formless, without anybody or anything attached to it, and yet very distinct.
You must choose your destiny, Artemis. Don’t look outside yourself—it lies within.
Destiny. She’d never thought much about her future—she was just who she was, doing things that came naturally when she was left to herself, and other things, like school, that were imposed on her but she accepted because she knew that in the long run they were good for her, and besides, as a kid she didn’t have much to say about it.
But that did change as you got older—and for the first time, it really hit her that she was getting older, starting to turn the corner to adulthood.
Who, what, was she going to be?
Then her eyes widened as she saw that her reflection in the pool was changing. New images were appearing—all of her, but all very different.
There she was as a chic, confident woman in her twenties, walking briskly along a London street lined with expensive shops, with the breeze tousling her hair like a golden cloud. She was wearing a stylish blue dress and calf-high suede boots, far from her current wardrobe of black boyish duds.
Plus—a wedding ring. She had a husband, maybe children, a lovely home and a successful career.
Who in their right mind wouldn’t want that? But was it really her? What about her dreams of exploring, adventuring, unlocking the mysteries of the past?
Now a second Artemis was emerging alongside the first—the same age, but a world apart. This one was more like she was now, wearing faded jeans and a khaki shirt, with her hair tied in a pony tail. She was prowling around an ancient settlement of crumbling, overgrown stone buildings with a lush jungle canopy in the background. She exuded her own brand of competence—keen, tough, watchful—which made the glossy city woman seem complacent by comparison. No wedding ring here—she was free to do as she pleased.
Although a little complacency didn’t really seem that bad, considering all the pleasures and benefits of the first life. Could she have both, she wondered?
Then a third image came into focus. This Artemis wore the black robe and red sash of the Sisters of Isis. Her face looked harder—but her eyes had the same look as Theodora’s, of mysterious inner power and knowledge.
That was what she wanted, more than anything else in the world.
But was it really? Or rather, an ideal that her childish imagination had created and clung to? Could she actually bear to spend the rest of her life in this primitive fortress, pursuing inner riches but bereft of any outer ones, a goal that she might not even attain?
She was so caught up in the power of the unfolding images and the questions they raised that she almost lost track of where she was. But that same formless thought nudged her again.
You must choose.
Suddenly, she understood! The false hearts were the wrong choices—the Artemises that she couldn’t, and wouldn’t, ever be. She had to put an end to them, now—finish them off with fierce strikes of the sword.
But which? How could she know what her true calling was? Up until today, she’d never had an adventure greater than getting on the wrong bus in London. Everything she’d known about the Goddess came from old dusty books. And while she knew other girls her age were fantasizing about boys and houses, she’d hardly given that part of life any thought. How was she supposed to choose?
The beautiful, happy, successful Artemis seemed foreign to her, and yet awoke a longing she hadn’t even known she had. The adventuress was easier to imagine herself as, but that was all it was, imagining. The Sister in the black robe gave her a mysterious thrill, but was even more outlandish than the others.
The strain and tension were coming back full force, and her hands were sweating on the sword hilt. What would happen if she chose wrong—and killed her true self?
She closed her eyes and searched deep, deep within, trying to still her panic, her ego, her greed at the things she wanted and her pride at how awesome she might become. It wasn’t about that. It was about the real Artemis, the kernel within those possibilities, and within all the other possibilities that might ever possibly be possible.
And that was it—the answer, right there.
She opened her eyes and stepped forward to the edge of the pond, moving boldly now. The images coaxed her with inviting smiles, their lips moving as they seemed to murmur, It’s me, me, me—you’ve always known it, now make it come true.
Trembling, she raised the sword high, point down.
Shoosh! as it plunged into the water—straight through the heart of the beautiful young woman in the chic blue dress. The feeling was horrible, like actually piercing through flesh. The woman’s face contorted in agony, with the eyes flaring wide and desperate in a How could you?! look.
As the image faded with the ripples, Artemis spun around to her other side. Shoosh! went the sword again—this time, into the black-robed breast of the Sister. Her face turned fierce with rage, and she hissed what sounded like curse in Arabic before she, too, faded away.
The adventuress sighed with pleasure, her smile widening and her arms opening for an embrace. Yes, yes! she murmured—you’ve chosen right, you’ve passed the test, now you are me and I am you—we’ve won!
Shoosh! as Artemis plunged the sword down once more, turning the smiling face to a mask of shock.
She threw back her head and shouted defiantly at an imagined audience of Theodora and the Sisters beyond the chamber’s glowing walls:
“They’re all false, you sneaky liars! I’m way more complicated than this little charade. When my real choices come, I’ll know it, and I’ll decide. Not you, trying to trap me inside a box—me!”
But now, the ripples of the dissolving images started to roil. Within seconds, the pool looked like a tiny ocean in a violent storm—and as the water gathered into rising, frothing waves, the troughs revealed what was lying beneath the surface.
Bones. Human skeletons, packed together in a hideous mat as if the Grim Reaper had been playing pick-up-sticks.
The water kept rising fast, spilling over the edge of the pool and lapping at her ankles. For a few seconds, she stood there stunned—it didn’t seem like there’d been nearly that much of it. Then she realized that it must be welling up from a hidden source, as if a giant faucet had been opened.
The chamber was filling like a bathtub—and very soon, it would be full right up to the ceiling.
She whirled around to the door. It had closed behind her.
By now, the water was climbing to her knees and the waves were slapping her chest.
“I answered the truth—it’s your test that’s a lie!” she screamed at the Sisters. “I hate you bitches!”
She dropped the useless sword to free her hands and started treading water, trying to clear her mind of terror and say goodbye to the people she loved, before she joined the bone-choked graveyard of the women who’d been smart and strong enough to make it this far—only to suffer this final, cruel deceit.
Then, as she struggled to keep her face above the churning surface, the last line of the verse echoed in her mind again—as if put there by that same voiceless something from outside.
The false hearts to pierce. False hearts, hearts, hearts—
The door! That was its odd shape—a human heart, not like a Valentine, but a real one!
But how could a piece of stone be false?
If I spoke the truth and it’s still locking me in here to die, that’s false, she thought wildly.
And how could a crystal sword pierce stone?
> I don’t know, but this is all insane anyway, she almost screamed out loud.
She sucked in as much air as she could amidst the froth and dove back down headfirst, groping for the sword. Her hands found it and she turned toward the door, at the same time curling her body so her feet could grip the floor, all in underwater slow motion.
When she rammed the sword against the stone heart of the door with all of her body weight behind it, the thrust was so hard that the crystal point shattered. That answered the question about how the sword could pierce stone. It couldn’t.
The ache in her lungs was unbearable. Her vision was blackening, with flashes shooting across it. Her feet lost touch with the floor and she no longer knew which way was up, not that it mattered, because the chamber would be filled to the top by the time she could get there.
Then, like a bursting dam, the door blew open. The raging torrent of escaping water hurled her back through it like a chickpea from a slingshot, tossing and tumbling until her head smacked against something with stunning force.
The blackness behind her eyes surged like the rush of pent up water, sweeping her into unconsciousness.
THIRTY-TWO
Adam and Mustafa rode hard through the whole long day, journeying to the mountain called the Mother of Life, where the Sisters of Isis had their fortress. Even with the swift, sure-footed Arabian horses, the going was treacherous—the terrain kept getting rougher and more desolate, far from villages or even goat trails. The low hills that looked deceptively gentle soon steepened, with the unmarked trail twisting through gullies, skirting chasms, and crossing rockslides. There was even the creepy menace of snakes—more than once, they’d had to tightly rein in their nervous mounts because of vipers sunning themselves on the stones.
But with Adam’s back country experience, Mustafa’s sense of the landscape, and Orpheus gauging distances—while muttering about sending boys to do a man’s job—they’d managed to find the landmarks and watering holes that Cristof had pointed out.
Still, as evening came on, Adam was more and more worried that they’d taken a wrong turn, or maybe several. By now they were tired and so were the horses. They’d been navigating mainly by guesswork for the last couple of hours. Even if they were getting close to the fortress, spotting it wouldn’t be any snap—Cristof had said it was so well concealed, you’d pass right by it if you didn’t know what to look for.
But at last, Zuleika made a particular kind of whinny that Adam had started to recognize—by instinct or smell, she knew when they were getting close to water. And the final landmark was supposed to be a spring, only about a mile away from their goal.
“You go, girl,” Adam told her excitedly, stroking her neck. “Take us there.”
She led them down into a brushy ravine, with the scrubby vegetation looking greener at the far end. Sure enough, water was trickling out of a rock face and down into a hollow to form a small pool.
The boys turned their mounts loose to drink and graze, while they hurriedly clambered up to the top of a crag for a look around, with Orpheus perched on Adam’s shoulder. The sun was sinking below the horizon, the sky’s last pale daylight fading fast—in half an hour, it would be full night.
Then Mustafa let out a whoop. “There—the Mother of Life!” he said, pointing toward a sheer cliff at the end of a small valley. As Adam stared at it, he could see that what looked at first like natural gaps along the rocky top were actually the niches of battlements. And the name rang true—there was something hauntingly feminine about the mountain’s graceful, curving lines.
“Yes!” Adam yelled, pumping his fist up and down. The boys high-fived, a maneuver he’d taught Mustafa the night before, and started back to the horses.
But then Orpheus said, “Hang on a minute. Adam, put me down—on solid rock.” He was gazing intently into the distance, toward the direction they’d come from—and he sounded worried.
Adam hurried to a good-sized slab of flat rock and set Orpheus down, facing that same way.
“What is it, Orph?”
“Seismic tremors. I can gauge them more accurately when I’m grounded.”
“You mean, like, an earthquake?” Adam said anxiously.
“No—horses, a lot of them. Sixty-three, to be precise, carrying the additional weight of men in armor. And they’re headed this way, fast.”
They all exchanged quick, tense glances as they realized what this meant: The Templars were coming to attack the fortress.
“How far are they?” Adam asked.
“4.8036 miles. Given the rough terrain, I’d estimate that they’ll be here in fifty-eight minutes and eleven seconds, with an error margin of plus or minus .07 percent.”
They had to warn the Sisters! But what if the Templars had sent scouts ahead? The boys would be sitting ducks as they crossed the open valley of the main entrance. Adam felt the familiar touch of panic—but then, that cool sense of command stepped in and took over.
“We’ll have to use the back way Cristof showed me,” he said. “And we can’t leave the horses here.” The Templars knew he’d been riding Zuleika, and if they saw her, they’d put two and two together fast.
The boys scrambled back down the crag and knotted up the horses’ reins so they wouldn’t get caught in brush. Adam hugged the mare’s neck, with his voice choking up.
“Go home, Zuleika,” he said. “Find your master—and stay away from those Templars!” He led her a few steps, in a direction toward Jerusalem but angling away from the oncoming riders, and gave her a gentle swat on the rump. She whinnied and craned her head around to butt his chest with her muzzle, as if she understood, then took off at a trot with the other horse following.
“Time to run for it, guys,” Orpheus said. “Go ahead, bag me, Adam—for once, I’m volunteering.”
Adam quickly settled him in the hemp sack and slung it securely on his shoulder. Then he followed Mustafa, who ran like a mountain goat, picking their way through the rocks toward the hidden entrance of the Sisters’ fortress.
His adrenaline was pumping, but his eyes still went damp. Turning Zuleika loose to fend for herself was tough. Knowing that the Templars were on their way was outright terrifying.
But on top of all that—Cristof hadn’t managed to stop them or even slow them down.
Which just about had to mean that they’d killed him.
THIRTY-THREE
When Artemis opened her eyes, she was lying on the wooden couch, with its thin mattress and coarse blanket, in the same firelit chamber where she’d tossed and turned earlier. She was wearing the same clothes—her own, with the black burqa over them—although now they were warm and dry.
The memories of her test came back suddenly and vividly—all except for the very end, when the wall of water had thrown her against something that knocked her silly. The Sisters must have found her and brought her back here.
Unless—she’d never actually even left this cot. Could that be the real truth—that it was all a dream, maybe caused by a drug Theodora had given her in the bitter chocolate drink?
But her head ached, and so did her banged up body—that certainly felt real. She slipped an exploratory hand up under the robe to her T-shirt. The bottom half, which she’d torn off for fire fuel, was gone.
So it all must have happened. Either that, or the Sisters had roughed her up in her sleep and torn away the tee, and she’d incorporated that into her dream, the way that people often did.
How long she’d been lying here, she didn’t have a clue—her sense of time was completely shot. She felt as loopy as if she’d slept for a week, but then, it all might have happened in a few hours. She sat up cautiously, leery of getting dizzy or feeling the sharp stab of a broken bone, but everything seemed more or less all right.
Then, just as before, Theodora stepped into view, holding the same cup filled with the same chocolaty brew.
“That’s not going to send me on another—experience—is it?” Artemis said, eying it warily.
; Theodora smiled. “Nothing sent you on that experience but you.”
Artemis finally made up her mind that Theodora hadn’t lied to her and wasn’t going to start now. In fact, she realized that in spite of the ordeal—or maybe because of it—she admired Theodora more than ever, and even felt really close to her.
Besides, she wanted that drink. She accepted the cup with both hands and sipped greedily. It was heavenly, even better than the first time.
“So it all really happened?” she asked anxiously. “And I passed?”
“You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t.” Theodora reached up into the sleeve of her robe—and took out a crimson red sash, exactly the same as the Sisters of Isis wore. She leaned over Artemis, slipped it around her waist, and knotted it precisely.
“Welcome, little Sister,” she said, stepping back.
Artemis stared at it, entranced, hardly daring to touch it. It was beautiful, exquisitely made of fine heavy silk. But far more than the sash itself was what it meant.
“But—I refused to become that—that she, or me,” she stammered. “I—I killed her.”
“You refused to let yourself be tricked by appearances and fantasy. You can still choose to stay here, Artemis, although I sense that your path will take you in other directions. But you’ll always be one of us, even though it may never show in ways that anyone else sees.”
Artemis sank back against the couch frame, shaking her head in amazement.
“I was awfully, awfully lucky.”
“I won’t deny that there’s such a thing as luck. But do you remember the last words I said to you?”
“The Goddess smiles on the brave. But there wasn’t any sign of Her.”
“Really? Or is it just that you have another romantic idea about that, and it’s gotten in the way so you can’t see the truth?”
Artemis hadn’t given much thought to what a visitation from the Goddess would be like. A vision, she’d vaguely supposed—some fantastically beautiful woman who’d appear in shimmering radiance and make lofty pronouncements. Or, if she was angry, do something like change you into a spider.