Crystal Warrior: Through All Eternity (Atlantean Crystal Saga Book 1)

by YatesNZ, Jen

  Gynevra rinsed her mouth at the bowl on the nightstand and Nerida inspected her lip.

  ‘You've cut all along the inside. Luckily it hasn't broken right through anywhere. Come with me to the night room. We'll make an herbal tisane and I'll do some healing on it.’

  ‘I'm supposed to meet King Cadal Isidor at the grotto—in—now!’ she wailed, and sat back on the bed with her face in her arms.

  Nerida gazed for a moment at the younger woman's bowed head, then said gently, ‘I see. Do you still wish to go? Or do you wish me to send someone with a message?’

  A part of her longed to rush to oblivion in the arms of her dawn lover but a stronger part of her resisted all thought of exposing her shame to one who was truly yet a stranger.

  ‘Nyd,’ she whispered. ‘Send Nyd to say he couldn't find me. Then no excuses will be necessary.’

  The tisane and Nerida's healing worked wonders on her mouth. Aside from minor swelling there was little to show for the injury. A pity, she thought as she turned restlessly from side to side in her bed, that her heart couldn't respond similarly to a few herbs and sacred words.

  Now neither Mery nor Phree were part of her life and though surrounded by people, she felt as alone as if in the middle of a desert. Such a happening had never figured in all their dreams and hopes for the future. Not one of them had foreseen this and Gynevra was at a loss to know how she could have prevented it from happening.

  Had the Goddess seen their dependence on one another and decreed that in attaining womanhood they would also attain self-sufficiency? Did the lesson need to be so hard? Rising from her bed in the hour before dawn, she threw on her day gown and cloak. Intent upon communing with the Goddess, she hurried from the Hall of Residents. There was a shrine in the grotto but her feet wouldn't take her that way. Taur would be long gone and the sense of what she'd missed with him burned too deeply. She turned instead to follow the dimly lighted path to the pink and green healing gardens for the heart, where the Goddess in the shrine was carved from rose quartz and the seat at her feet, sparkling green aventurine.

  With her arms wrapped about the feet of Ist, Gynevra wept bitter tears for the manner of her passage into womanhood. There'd been ecstasy. She couldn't deny that, gave thanks for it, but it had come at great cost and she'd carry the wound in her deepest soul always.

  It was with dragging feet and a heavy heart Gynevra finally returned along the path, knowing the reproaches were mounting against her. She was late for latreia class. She'd missed dawn meditation with the virulent High Priestess Dagma and it was just as futile to hope Dagma hadn't reported her absence, as it was to believe Phryne wouldn't complain to the Archinus of her conduct during the Sacred Joining of the Gods.

  All the teaching rooms were at ground level beneath the Halls of Residents and she'd almost reached the open air courtyard of the latreia room when she had to step off the path for Rom, a large and ponderous Temple giant carrying a cane hamper on his shoulders. Close behind him walked Phryne, dressed in the plain black robes of a monastery initiate and flanked by two older priestesses Gynevra had never seen.

  They'd already come for her then. Sick with longing, Gynevra tried to find words of remorse to speak to her sister but before she could clear the painful obstruction in her throat, a young priestess called to her from an upper gallery.

  ‘Lady Gynevra! I thought you'd vanished! The Archinus has sent me to find you. She asks that you attend her in the Sanctum immediately.’

  Gynevra swallowed, and looking back, encountered the full venom of her sister's green eyes and knew nothing she could say would ever make a difference. Phree was lost to her. She would never let go of her anger or sense of injustice any more than she'd consider deviating from her chosen Life Path. As surely as she, Gynevra, would stand alone before the Archinus, Phryne would never forgive her.

  Solitary confinement for one tonn! Six hours of every day to be spent studying mind control, her own, with High Priestess Zenor.

  By mid-morning she was pacing a tiny cell only twice the size of the bed, which was all it contained. There was access to a similar sized, high-walled courtyard containing a single stone bench. All she'd been allowed to bring with her was the gown she was wearing. Water for washing and a brush for her hair would be brought to her once a day. High Priestess Zenor would bring food and water to drink. She was being treated like a felon. Felt like a felon! Tears of rage and humiliation she'd refused to shed in front of the Archinus scratched at the surface of her composure. She'd overcome the urge to cry like a babe while withstanding the harsh words of condemnation Ianthe had heaped on her. She'd not cry now.

  Ianthe, her mother—who'd not cared to hear how amazing that first connection with Cadal Isidor had been nor help her daughter-novice understand the unusual out-of-body experience. Who'd only heard her admission of mind-connecting with him during his first joining with the Goddess on the altar and condemned her in coldly vituperative fury. Who'd made sure her daughter understood she was only being afforded the luxury of solitary confinement as opposed to the total disgrace of eviction from the Temple because of the prophecy. She might one day be needed as Archinus to save them all from destruction.

  With a snort of bitter indignation, Gynevra slapped her hand against the stone wall, which prevented her from seeing even one leaf of green, of tree or grass, and swung about to storm back across the tiny space only to come up against the inner wall in four full strides.

  Slowly, in contrast to the violence of her pacing, the all-consuming anger transmuted into cold hard determination. Everything Zenor could teach her, she'd assimilate. No one would make free of her mind again nor control her in any way. She'd take dominion over her own life, create her own freedom. As a citizen of Atlantis it was her right to shape her own destiny. Prophecy or no, she would choose her own Life Path.

  Clearly, High Priestess Zenor expected to find a recalcitrant and rebellious student. What she found, and was obviously puzzled by, was a young woman avid for knowledge and power over her own mind, who unsmilingly, unflinchingly performed every task set her. It was obvious also by her facility with each new step as the days passed that she practiced unceasingly in the hours spent alone.

  Delving deep into her inner reserves, Gynevra found a strength she'd not known she possessed, had never needed to call on. Now she realized this time of solitude was a gift of discovery of a personal power she’d never lose. Not only was she alone, but she now knew her strength lay in unity with herself. Henceforth she’d need no other for she'd found all she'd ever need in her own being.

  She'd out-Archinus the Archinus in inscrutability and unapproachable self-possession.

  Through Zenor, she relayed a message to each of her parents requesting an audience with them together, on the day following her release from solitary confinement. They couldn't refuse, for such an audience was the right of every young Atlantean in choosing their Life Path. She contemplated their acceptance with a grim satisfaction.

  Sprawled like a pampered, bejeweled beast among the golden cypresses of the Royal Citadel on the central island of Fyr Poseidyr, the palace was a visual splendor of polished jasper, onyx, marble and rock crystal, inlaid and overlaid with gold, silver, and orichalc. Every surface within shone and glistened and reflected other surfaces so the vast building gave the impression of even greater immensity. The walls were monuments to great deeds or victories by previous Kings and since the royal ancestry could be traced back to the Gods of Creation in general, and Poseidon in particular, the stories were ancient epics of legend and fantasy.

  Gynevra had attended the palace with her sisters once in every year of her life, for the Dragon Festival and annual census of the Children of the Dragon. It was a time of feasting, a time when King Ahron, the eldest acknowledged son of their illustrious progenitor, reminded them of all the nation had lost to disaster and to warfare within the last century. Reminded them of the physical, mental, and spiritual magnificence of Isidor, which was perpetuated in themselves, a
nd of the need for commitment to his vision of re-populating Atlantis with a master-race in his consummate likeness.

  There was rejoicing in the swelling numbers, celebration of the achievements of many, exhortations to continue to procreate, and contracts for the same to be sought and agreed upon. It was also a time in which Gynevra, Meryan, Phryne and the many young ones, wandered open-mouthed through the vast halls of the palace absorbing its myriad wonders.

  Every wall told a story, etched in the precious metals on quartz crystal, onyx or white marble. Each hall took its name from the free-standing statue that dominated it, a royal ancestor carved from stone and overlaid with gold or silver and lavishly adorned with precious gems. The annual gathering of the Children of the Dragon was held in the most elaborate of them all; that presided over by the massive golden statue of King Isidor, sire inveterate.

  Gowned in emerald silk in defiance of her priestess status, Gynevra traversed the palatial Halls as befitted a Princess of the Blood. A retinue of four priestesses walked at her back, each looking a little uneasy yet awed to be at the command of the imperiously remote young woman who'd emerged from solitary confinement the previous day with the same awesome presence as an imperial butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. Not one of them had thought to gainsay her orders to procure her the services of the best clothier in the city, assist her in the elaborate coiffure of her long bronze-gold hair, and attend her on her visit to the palace.

  Staring unseeingly at the back of the guard guiding them to the King's Receiving Hall, Gynevra marveled at the efficacy of the mind-skills she'd learned from Zenor. Every step, every new Hall they passed through brought memories of previous visits with her sisters, of shared laughter and close companionship. With a snap resounding in her mind with the resonance of iron slamming on iron, she closed the door to all such memories and emptied herself of emotion.

  In the anteroom to the King's Receiving Hall, redolent with the sweet rich perfume of burning frankincense, they found others waiting also and for just a moment Gynevra felt her carefully constructed mask slip a little. Would she have to wait here in the public anteroom with strangers staring and speculating on her presence? But almost immediately Lord Jarnak, the King's High Steward, came forward and in a voice lacking any expression whatsoever, said, ‘The King expects you, Princess Gynevra. Please follow me.’

  Through a silk-curtained archway they entered a smaller room containing a few elaborately carved ebony chairs and a low table on which lay a silver wine carafe, several gold goblets, and a marble platter of sweetmeats. Here he left them only to return a few moments later. More frankincense burned in a tiny jeweled shrine high in a corner of the room and Gynevra knew the perfume would always remind her of this place, this day, whatever the outcome.

  ‘King Ahron and Archinus Ianthe await you, Princess, if you would please step this way. Your attendants may wait here.’

  With the merest hint of a deferential bow, he held the heavy silken drapes aside and motioned her through.

  ‘My attendants remain with me,’ Gynevra responded haughtily without rising from her chair and was gratified to see the man's eyebrows twitch a little and the expressionless eyes widen with a hint of respect.

  A child of no consequence she would never be again. This day she would demand her birthright. She'd been born a princess after all. Henceforth she'd be one.

  There was little time to reflect however. A short walk brought them to another silk-draped doorway. The steward held the drapery aside and announced in a loud monotone, ‘The Princess, Gynevra of Poseidonia.’

  The magnificence of the King's Receiving Chamber far outshone any other chamber of the palace they'd passed through. Beaten gold wall panels encrusted with precious gems alternated with exquisite silk wall-hangings of shimmering gold, silver, purple, scarlet and emerald. The high vaulted ceiling was hung with hundreds of pennants depicting the red and gold dragon on a black background. The slightest movement of air through the great Hall rippled across the cloud of banners bringing the silken creatures to shimmering life.

  Courtiers in colorful raiment, glittering jewels, elaborate coiffures and jostling perfumes, were arrayed behind the King and standing in knots about the room. Gynevra felt the stabbing energies of criticism and speculation as she approached the royal dais across the burnished gold floor. Inwardly castigating herself for not thinking to request a private audience, she straightened her spine and visualized her aura impenetrable as solid gold.

  On a smaller throne at the King's side, Ianthe sat, attired in the scarlet gown, ornate head-dress and jeweled breastplate she affected for formal occasions. At the King's feet lay a pair of leashed black panthers, their harness fashioned from gilded leather set with rubies, sapphires and diamonds. Rumor had it they were trained to scent traitors and to dispatch them with immense speed and ferocity. Heads on their paws and sprawled in deceptive repose, their yellow eyes nevertheless followed her every movement.

  Yet Gynevra only had eyes for the man who reposed with a similar feral-feline stillness and majesty on the silken ilobaron of the huge wrought gold throne, focus of all attention.

  His raiment was a length of purple-shot, gold silk draped across one solid shoulder more flesh than muscle, wrapped round a waist showing the effects of years of rich living, and secured with a rope of twisted gold, silver and copper. At sixty, Ahron of Poseidonia, though still a formidably handsome man, was fighting to hold the virile edge that would keep him on his throne. From the stories Gynevra had heard in Qrazil, her sire was given to regular orgiastic excesses in order to convince his people he still burned with the legendary fire of the DragonBlood.

  If she were to count the knots adorning the end of his belt, she knew there’d be nine as worn only by those initiated into the highest of the Mysteries of the Temple. He’d be a worthy test of her newest skills, his knowing almost as acute as Ianthe's, as evidenced by the swirls of midnight blue in his aura. She'd need every mind skill she'd learned to hold her own with him.

  Acknowledging his eminence with the star sign of respect, she dropped to one knee on the lowest step of the dais and lowered her chin to her breast. The priestesses behind her fell to both knees, touching their foreheads to the floor.

  ‘Arise, Princess, Ladies. Gynevra of Poseidonia, daughter of my seed, approach that I may better assess your beauty.’

  The husky, innuendo of his voice sent a cold frisson up Gynevra's spine. With back straight and eyes shuttered she did as bid, passing between the panthers, showing no awareness of their presence. At the top of the steps she moved towards the hand the King extended to her. Making herself stand absolutely still, she suffered the fat, be-ringed fingers to fondle the brilliant tresses of hair lying against the swell of her breast above the close-fitted bodice of her gown.

  ‘We could make you the wealthiest philidora in the capital,’ he murmured for her ears only. Then turning slightly towards the courtiers behind his right shoulder, he said in a loud, hectoring tone, ‘What say you, Lord Gabon? Lord Zaraban? Would you not pay high uson for exclusive rights to this delectable body, creation of my loins?’

  The courtiers named, stepped forward with alacrity, hands extended greedily towards the firm young flesh generously displayed by the fashionable gown. Gynevra had known what to expect. There were plenty willing to impress the young royal lady with tales of the rapacity and insatiability of the Paggi piacani of her sire's court. Fixing first one and then the other with a direct amber stare, she unleashed a shaft of laser fire, channeled straight from the Earth Mother beneath her feet. As one, they stopped, looked confused then returned to their places mumbling incoherently about priestess-witches.

  The King merely smiled with a diabolic satisfaction, setting Gynevra's teeth on edge. It seemed that Ahron of Poseidonia enjoyed flexing his power over his people.

  Moving deliberately beyond the grasping fingers, she sketched a cursory star of respect to Ianthe. Then closing her inner windows, as Zenor had taught her to do, and clasping
her hands together over her solar plexus, she fixed each of her parents in turn with a steady gaze.

  She'd been raised with the expectation of serving in the Temple and only on gaining womanhood had she known she wanted more. Even so she'd probably have agreed to serve if Ianthe had shown the slightest hint of maternal care or concern, or even tried to understand what had happened during the Sacred Joining at the Spring Fertility Rite. It had occurred to her over the last tonn of enforced seclusion that Ianthe had never shown her the loyalty of a mother and thereby hadn't earned the obedience of a daughter. On that morning when she'd stood before the wrath of the Archinus, a stone of rebellious, self-determination had been seeded deep within her in that place where love, duty, and commitment to her people should have been deeply grounded. She knew what was expected of her but—meilad evintrod osudon if she'd make such a sacrifice when it patently wasn't appreciated.

  Chapter 11

  He'd not yet invited her to speak but Gynevra decided the invitation was inherent in his granting of the audience. She'd not offer herself into his power by acting the supplicant.

  ‘My Lord King of all Atlantis, my Lady Archinus, co-creators of my physical being, I thank you for granting this audience to discuss my choice of Life Path. I've meditated over many moons and constantly over this last tonn in solitary confinement and can find no desire within myself to commit my life to the Temple. Therefore, Sire, I request you to contract a Life Union for me with a suitable Son of the Dragon.’

  She felt Ianthe trying to laser through her defenses but Zenor had taught her well. Feeling rejected and betrayed by the Archinus only hardened her resolve. Where once the daughter might have responded from her inner need for a movuon, now she harbored only resistance. Ignoring the Archinus, Gynevra fixed her attention on the King—who was gazing at her as if perceiving other than her physical body.