David Wood
Atlantis
Dedication
Dedicated to my dear friend Tamara “Myra” Bodrick, the real-life Tam Broderick. Thanks for letting me steal your identity and pithy sayings.
Prologue
“We have emptied the city, Eminence.” Albator shifted his weight and stole a glance at the temple door. “It is only the two of us and a few acolytes who wait to block the door as you instructed.”
“You have done well, my son. Now it is time for you to go.” Paisden pointed a long finger at the exit. “You don’t want to be here when they arrive.”
Instinct battled obligation in Albator’s gray eyes. Clearly, he wanted to get away, but as Paisden’s highest-ranking acolyte, his place was here in temple. His lips formed soundless words and his feet continued their dance of indecision.
“Perhaps it won’t come to war,” he finally managed. “Why would the lords do this to us? We are of their line.”
“We are their greatest mistake, or so they believe.” Paisden’s outward calm reflected the serenity that came with accepting one’s fate. “They feel they never should have let us leave the mother city. We did not hold to the old ways. We interfered.”
“We helped!” Albator swept a shock of stringy hair off of his high forehead. His voice took on a strident tone. “The people knew nothing. We taught them so much. We bettered their lives.”
“The lords do not see it that way. To their minds, the knowledge was not ours to give. And then there were those of us who did not rein in our baser instincts.”
Albator’s red cheeks confirmed something Paisden had long suspected.
“Who is she?” Paisden now regretted the long hours he spent in the temple. Perhaps if he’d ventured outside more often, he’d have known more about Albator’s life.
Albator’s eyes fell. “Her name is Malaya, and she is kind and beautiful. If the lords could only see how much we care for one another, perhaps they could understand that a union such as ours…”
“Will always be an abomination to them. On this, and many other things, they are intractable.” Paisden hated to bring the young man up short, but the sooner this conversation came to an end, the sooner Albator could make his way to safety. “Now, go to your woman. It is not too late for the two of you to build a life together. I hereby discharge you from your obligations to the temple.”
“I don’t want that.” Albator held up his hands and took a step backward.
“What you want no longer matters.” Paisden delivered the words like a slap to the face. “By this time tomorrow there will be no temple.”
“We should fight them.” Albator looked around as if searching for a weapon. “There are more of us than there are of them.”
“Impossible. You know we have nothing with which to fight. For years, under the guise of needing resources in other parts of the empire, the lords have gradually stripped us of our weapons and energy sources. By the time we realized what was happening, we had but one machine and nothing with which to power it.”
Paisden winced. The memory of his own naiveté stung. He remembered the pleas for help from their sister cities — pleas to which he was helpless to respond. Disasters, none of them natural, befell the cities, until only Paisden and his followers remained. He sent envoys to the lords, but none returned.
And then, yesterday, a single messenger, so weak from hunger and exhaustion that he could scarcely walk, staggered into the temple and uttered three words.
“They are coming.”
Paisden sprang into action, ordering everyone to flee inland, taking only what they could carry on their backs, for he knew the weapon the lords would use against them, and he was powerless to stop it. When the messenger recovered sufficient strength, he told Paisden that the lords were, perhaps, a day behind him. And thus, did Paisden finally know the number of his days.
“There is nothing more you can do. Our people will need leadership, and you are their strongest remaining link to the temple. You and the other acolytes must close the door and then go, before it is too late.”
“I’m not a stronger link than you.” The flash of puzzlement in Albator’s eyes dissolved in understanding. “You mean to remain here.”
“I do. I am sworn to this temple. If fate wishes me to live, it will be so.”
“You can’t.” A tear trickled down Albator’s cheek. “Is there anything I can say to change your mind?”
“No.” Paisden embraced the young man who was the closest thing to a son he would ever have. He kissed Albator once on each cheek, tasted the salty tears and perspiration, and then, gently, pushed him toward the door.
Albator stole a single glance over his shoulder as he stepped out into the sunlight. Moments later, he and the others began piling up stones at the temple door. Soon, it would be dark and Paisden would be alone.
Paisden took one last look around the place he had called home since his youth. Though wrought by human hands, the temple was perfect. Every stone fitted together seamlessly, every line was perfectly straight, just as Paisden’s people had taught them. He took one last look at the sun, breathed deeply of the tangy salt air, and then went about his business.
He spared not a glance at the statue that dominated the room, but trailed his hand across the cool, smooth surface of the altar rail as he headed deeper into the temple. In the adyton, he clambered up into the steep shaft that led to his hidden quarters. Despite his years, he still had little trouble making the climb. With his demise looming, he savored every breath, every sensation. The rock shaft seemed alive beneath his hands, each trickle of sweat a living thing dancing along his flesh.
At long last, he crawled into his cell. It was a tiny, dark room, but he found comfort in the close quarters. He wanted to sleep, but he had set himself a task worthy of his final years, and he would see it completed. He lit a taper, plugged the tiny doorway with a stone block, and gathered the tools he would need.
He forsook the hammer, chisel, and stone tablets. There was too little time. Instead, he filled several wooden frames with dry clay, added water, stirred, and then smoothed them. His tablets ready, he found a sharp wooden stylus, settled onto his pallet, and began to write the story of his people.
Chapter 1
Sofia Perez mopped her brow and looked out a across the sunbaked flats of the Marisma de Hinojos. Heat rose in waves from the parched earth, shimmering in the summer sun. Sunburned workers chipped away at the baked mud, excavating the canals that ringed the site. The scrape of digging tools on hard earth, and snatches of conversation, drifted across the arid landscape. It was hard to believe the transformation this drought-ridden salt marsh outside of Cadiz, Spain had undergone since early spring. Considering the level of funding their primary donor provide, progress was not just expected, but demanded.
“It’s hot as Satan’s butt crack out here.” Patrick fanned himself with his straw pith helmet. His fair skin was not holding up well under the Spanish sun. In fact, his entire body glowed almost as red as his hair beneath a thick layer of sunscreen. “I don’t know how you handle it.”
“I’m from Miami. This is nothing.” That wasn’t entirely true. She kept going to her backpack for the can of spray-on sunblock to protect her olive skin. She hated sunburns — the itching, the way her clothing rubbed raw in all the wrong places. It was something she avoided at all costs. She noticed the way the corners of Patrick’s mouth twitched and raised an eyebrow. “So, are you going to stand there trying not to smile, or are you going to tell me what’s up?”
“You’re needed in my section.” He stopped fanning. “We think we’ve found the entrance to the temple.”