A man’s voice shouted from behind them in an odd language.
“What did he say?” Elam asked.
Sapphira whirled toward the source. “He said, ‘Who’s there?’”
Elam stepped in front of Sapphira. “Can you translate for me?”
“Yes. I know this language. Morgan made sure we trained especially hard for this one.”
As Elam whispered to her, Sapphira spoke the translation in a loud voice. “Sir, if we are trespassing, we are very sorry and will leave immediately. Allow us to go our way in peace.”
Lantern light flashed across Elam’s eyes, and the voice calmed. “There are no trespassers in Christ’s courtyard. All true seekers are welcome.” The shadowy form of a man ambled down the slope, keeping one leg stiff to brace against falling. The light revealed a generous smile on his narrow, aged face.
As Sapphira quickly translated, Elam pulled her close beside him. “Hide your eyes,” he whispered.
She jerked out her coif and tied it on, pushing her hair underneath and veiling her eyes.
“Two of you, eh? We can make room. Are you two married?”
Sapphira shook her head, then Elam did the same.
The man pointed at his face. “I was wondering, with the veil, you know, maybe she was a new bride. Are you brother and sister?”
Sapphira whispered the words to say. Elam tried to parrot them, but they came out skewed. “No,” Elam said in the man’s language. “We are just . . . together.”
“Oh. . . . I see. Well, I can’t say that I approve, but I guess you foreigners have different customs. You’re welcome to stay the night, but I’m a Christian man, so we’ll have to separate you. The girl can sleep with my wife, and you and I can push some bedding together on the front room floor. It’s not the most comfortable place to sleep, but we’ll be warm and dry.” He extended his hand. “My name is Lazarus. What’s yours?”
Elam jerked his head around to Sapphira. “I didn’t understand any of that, but I thought I heard him say Lazarus.”
“He did.” Sapphira stepped up and curtsied. “His name is Elam, and mine is Sapphira.” She nodded toward the building. “What is this place, if I may be so bold?”
Lazarus gestured toward the boards on the wall. “See the cross?” he said, pulling a smaller wooden replica from under his belt. “It’s a church, dedicated to Michael.”
Sapphira translated for Elam, then asked Lazarus, “Michael, the archangel?”
“Yes, indeed.” The man leaned toward her and blinked his friendly old eyes. “Obviously you have heard of him in your country.”
Again, she translated, then, as she readied another reply, Elam pulled off her coif. Her hair spilled to her shoulders, and she stepped back, wincing at the lantern light.
“An angel!” Lazarus dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “What do you request of your humble servant? I am ready to do your bidding.”
Elam pointed at Lazarus. “Sapphira, tell him you’re a special messenger called an oracle of fire, and now that you have brought me here to his church, your work is done.”
Sapphira shielded her eyes with her arm. “But ”
“Tell him!” Elam ordered, stuffing the coif into her pocket.
Sapphira translated the words and lowered her arm. “What now?”
He pointed at Lazarus’s cross. “Ask him if I can use it.”
Sapphira asked.
Lazarus laid the cross in Elam’s palm. “By all means!”
Elam wrapped Sapphira’s fingers around the cross and covered them with his own. “Go home, now. We’ll see each other again. I know we will.” He helped Lazarus to his feet and stepped back, pulling him along.
Sapphira drew in her bottom lip and bit it hard. She yearned to be with Elam, but he was right. This world would never accept her. No matter how much love a precious few people showed to her, she would still be a freak of nature in the eyes of everyone else. And who was she to expect Elam to live buried in dark hopelessness, trapped in the dimension of the dead, with a bunch of plant girls, no less? He had a vision from Elohim, and she should spur him on, not drag him back.
As she gazed at Elam slowly climbing the hill with Lazarus, she looked past him and, with her sharpened vision, read a sign on the church’s wall. Jesus saith unto him, “Feed my sheep.” The riddle on the museum wall came back to her mind: “When a maid collects an egg, she passes it on, giving it to the one she feeds.” Sliding her hand into her pocket, she felt the Ovulum, now cold and lifeless. She knew it was time to obey.
“I’ll go,” she called, withdrawing the Ovulum, “but . . .”
Elam pivoted and stood on a flat terrace several paces up. “But what?”
She held the Ovulum in her palm. “But only if you take this. I think you’ll need it more than I will.” She tossed it to him, not wanting to give him a choice. He caught it with both hands and pressed it close to his chest.
Keeping her eyes fixed on his, she raised the cross high in the air. As tears blurred her vision, she shouted, “Give me light!” The cross ignited, burning with lively yellow flames from an inch above her hand to the very top. She began to swirl it in a slow orbit.
Lazarus lowered himself to his knees again and lifted his hands. “May God be praised. I have seen another miracle!”
Elam nodded at Sapphira, the glow of the cross shining in his eyes. “Go on, now,” he said softly. “I’ll learn the language soon enough.”
Swirling the cross faster, she steadied her voice and spoke as clearly as she could. “I love you, Elam, son of Shem.”
Tears rolled down Elam’s cheeks. “And I love you, Sapphira Adi, sparkling gem of perfection.”
As the flames danced in a curtain all around her, Elam, Lazarus, the grassy slope, and the church incinerated in her sight, like a painted canvas burning from top to bottom. When the fire died away, the mining trench appeared. Competing shadows crisscrossed the dark furrow, some cast there by a column of purplish light spinning around her, the underworld exit point of the new portal. Dimmer shadows tripped around the flickers of the lantern Elam had left behind next to the corridor’s new dead end a stone wall the Ovulum had erected with its layers of crimson light, blocking Morgan’s entry into the girls’ home.
Sapphira tightened her grip on the smoldering cross and stepped out of the column. After picking up the lantern, she shuffled back toward the elevation platform, kicking black pebbles all along the way. Why hurry? She had all the time in the world to climb that long rope and rejoin her spawn sisters, then years and years to sit and wonder what Elam was doing up in the land of the living.
When she reached the platform, she stared at the rope and the black void above. Everything seemed so empty, so hopeless. Elam was far away up there, separated from her by much more than space. He was in a completely different dimension, probably happy now to be away from this God-forsaken hole in the ground.
She leaned against the wall and slid down to her seat, staring at the trench, the pathway back to the world above. Setting down the cross and lantern, she slid her hand into her pocket. She felt only her coif. The Ovulum was gone.
She grasped a handful of dust and threw it toward the trench. God-forsaken was right. Now everything and everyone from the living world had escaped, and they were all probably glad of it. This was a place of torture and sorrows, and those born here were destined to live here alone, separated from God forever.
Now she knew what Elam had meant. Having something and then losing it was a lot worse than never having it at all. At least now Elam could find new parents or maybe somebody else to show him love and care.
Sapphira pressed her trembling lips together. She had nothing, and what she had lost would never return.
She scrunched up her face, trying not to cry, but tears flowed anyway. Her voice quaking, she looked up at the dark, blank ceiling. “I guess you got what you wanted out of me, didn’t you? You destroyed the tower, you rescued Elam, but you left me here to rot.”
Lowering her head, she let her tears drip into the dust. “Why didn’t you just let me be Mara, the slave girl? Why did you have to show me so many wonders of the living world, only to trap me down here again?” She rose to her knees and, balling her fists, she screamed, “Why didn’t you just leave me alone?”
She fell prostrate and wept, sobbing and heaving, not caring how dirty, ugly, or ridiculous she looked. Who would ever come around to see her? Nobody cared . . . nobody.
After a few minutes, something soft touched her head. “Sapphira?”
Sapphira jerked up and stared at the female form, a girl with white hair, sparkling sapphire pupils, and a burning torch in her hand. Sapphira rubbed her eyes with her filthy knuckles. “Acacia?”
Acacia extended her hand. “Let’s get you back to the museum room. There’s something you have to see.”
Sapphira took Acacia’s hand and pulled herself to her feet. “Did you leave Paili and the others alone?” she asked, brushing the grime from her dress.
“They’ll be okay. You were gone all night, so I had to look for you.” Acacia nodded at the cross on the floor. “Where did you get that?”
“From the land of the living.” Sapphira picked up the cross and tucked it under her belt. “I’ll keep it to remind me of Elam.”
Acacia leaned into the elevation shaft and looked up. “Come on. It’s a long climb. We’ll stop by the pool and clean up when we get to the top.”
“What’s going on in the museum room?” Sapphira asked.
“You have to see it to believe it.” Acacia dropped her torch and pointed at it. “Lights out!” Then, picking up Sapphira’s lantern, she extended her hand again. “Let’s save our stories for when everyone’s around.”
Sapphira intertwined her fingers with Acacia’s and followed her into the elevation shaft. The warmth of her touch fed her soul with comfort. At least she had one friend left in the world. She grabbed the rope and looked back at her twin. “Better put out the fire.”
Acacia smiled and nodded at the lantern. “Lights out for you, too.”
Now in total darkness, Sapphira pulled on the rope and inched her way up. She knew the rest of her journey would be a long, hard climb.
Chapter 9
Circa AD 495
Merlin climbed the rocky bed, grunting as he scaled the incline. This journey had been a lot easier the first time he attempted it, but that was at least thirty years earlier. Now the slope seemed steeper, the jagged rocks, sharper.
He set down a large, leather saddlebag and pushed his long robe out of the way, then, steadying his feet on two stable rocks, cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hail! Clefspeare!”
As he waited, his spindly shadow loomed on the face of the cliff, a phantom in the full moon’s glow. Above him, another dark shape yawned as if stretching to swallow his silhouette the entrance to a familiar cave, the home of his lifelong friend.
He cupped his hands again. “Hail! Clefspeare!”
Again, no response. He turned and looked down the rugged slope. The king stood on a smoother path below, somewhat overdressed in his fine riding attire, now coated with dirt and sweat.
“Come, Your Majesty,” Merlin said, holding out his hand. “I can support you.”
The king, using both hands to steady himself, climbed the rocky embankment, and as soon as he approached Merlin, he grasped the outstretched hand and pulled himself the rest of the way. “Master Merlin,” the king said, “your strength amazes me.”
“I have climbed many hills in my time,” Merlin replied.
Arthur gazed down the slope. “I’m not comfortable with this ruse. Devin is nowhere in sight.”
“He will come,” Merlin said, following Arthur’s gaze. The moonlight revealed scraggly trees and an empty path far below, but little else. “We don’t want him here too early. As long as he stays away from Bald Top, the plan will work.”
“I respect your courage and wisdom, Master Merlin, but would you have me march right into the dragon’s mouth? How can I be sure that he has forgiven my rash decisions?”
“You have to trust me. In spite of that trumped-up story about Andrew, you must believe that Clefspeare is not a danger to us.” Merlin hoisted his bag and continued the climb for a few more yards before stopping to wait again. When the king joined him, the two proceeded on level ground, Merlin again leading the way. After passing a few bare, stunted trees, the travelers faced the entrance of the cave. A gentle breeze blew from within, and then, seconds later, the breeze reversed, and the cave drew the air past their bodies.
“The cave breathes,” the king said, his mustache twitching, “but I smell no rotting flesh.”
“Nor will you.” Merlin filled his lungs and bellowed once again. “Hail! Clefspeare! It is I, Merlin, Prophet of the Most High. With me is His Majesty, King Arthur.”
Again he waited but received no response. Merlin squatted, picked up a pebble, and tossed it down the slope. “He must be in regeneracy.”
“Regeneracy?” The king stooped next to Merlin and peered into the shadows. “What is regeneracy?”
“You will see.” Merlin rose and walked straight into the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he looked back. The king had fallen behind. “We must hurry,” Merlin warned. “The others will be assembling very soon.”
The king quickened his pace and caught up. “The others?”
“I will explain soon enough.” A strange glow from deeper in the cave illumined the path, dimly at first, but ever more brightly as he proceeded. They passed together under a high archway and into an interior chamber. In the very center, a shimmering, inverted funnel of pure light pointed toward the cave’s ceiling, its circular base resting a few inches from the rocky floor.
Within the swirl, a dazzling array of flashing glitters flew like buzzing bees from one side to the other, bouncing and dancing until they struck the huge, heaving body at the center.
The king drew closer. “Master Merlin, am I beholding a holy sight or an accursed demon? I don’t know whether to bare my head and feet in reverence or pluck out my eyes in shame.”
Merlin placed a strong hand on the king’s shoulder. “Perhaps you should save your artful speech for your diplomatic meetings. It isn’t necessary in the company of dragons.” He waved his hand at the cone. “This light is neither accursed nor holy; it’s a natural process called regeneracy. This is how a dragon prefers to sleep. You see, a dragon’s scales and eyes breathe the light as you and I breathe the air. He absorbs energy and expels the light he doesn’t need. If a dragon were subjected to darkness for a long period of time, he would be overcome by weakness. Without at least a candle to feed his body, he would eventually die.”
Merlin set his bag down, approached the glowing dragon, and stretched out his hands over the cone. “At night he rests on a bed of silver and gold, and the power of the day flows into his bed. The energy grows into a shroud of luminescence around his body, and he reabsorbs the light as it passes over his scales.” He pointed at the base of the dragon’s bed and moved his finger around as if stirring. “Intermixed in the precious metal pieces are polished gems. They reflect the light, making it rebound within the shroud, so that more of the light strikes his body.”
The king took a step closer. “You say that he is asleep?”
Clefspeare snorted and stretched out his leg. The king placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, but Merlin jumped back and grasped Arthur’s forearm. “You have nothing to fear, but if you think or act aggressively, he is likely to sense danger.”
Arthur returned the grasp but kept watching the dragon. “When will he awaken?”
“That’s unpredictable. I don’t understand the process completely, but the light eventually fades, and the dragon awakes.”
“Is he vulnerable to attack while he sleeps?”
“Not likely. Many have come upon dragons in their lairs, but a dragon can sense danger and always awakens. Since I am his friend, and you have come as his new, albeit suspicious ally, Clefspeare senses none. But I must awaken him now.”
Merlin unfastened a string from around his neck and used it to pull a strangely shaped object from beneath his vest, a pendant stone dangling at the end of the string, small enough for his fingers to fully envelop.
“This is a candlestone, a kind of anti-prism,” he explained. “You see, a normal prism bends light and splits the colors. This stone does the opposite. It arrests fractured light and straightens it out. The light passes into it as excited energy and is dispelled as a simple beam. If I place it at the base of Clefspeare’s shroud, it will interrupt the circuit and disperse his shield. It also interrupts a dragon’s photo-respiration, and therefore his energy flow. It can actually absorb light, and with it the life force of his body.”
“Then could it be used as a weapon against dragons?”
“Most definitely. I wear it around my neck for defense against the evil, fallen dragons. One of my ancestors found it in Shinar after the destruction of Nimrod’s tower, and it was passed down to me through the centuries. I believe I am the only one alive who knows how to use it, but after today it will matter no more.”
Merlin placed the stone on the ground and slid it into the base of the shroud. Instantly the dancing light radiated toward the candlestone, and a brilliant, steady beam poured forth from its opposite side. The shroud vanished, and the candlestone glowed with an eerie, flat light.
After a few seconds, the sleeping dragon stirred. With a great stretch and a mighty yawn, Clefspeare rose to his haunches, his enormous tail acting as a balance. Smoke and sparks belched from his open mouth. The king drew back and once again gripped the hilt of his sword.
Clefspeare spied his two visitors. His deep gravelly voice erupted. “Master Merlin! I have been expecting you, though I did not expect to see the Sovereign.” Clefspeare gave him a clumsy bow and nearly fell on his face, but with a flap of his wings, he righted himself. “Master Merlin, would you be so kind as to remove that accursed stone from my sight before I become violently ill?”
Merlin picked up the candlestone and covered it with both hands. “Are you sure the stone made you lose your balance, or are you still overcome by sleep?”
“I assure you that my eyes are clear. I recognized the king, did I not? Now please put that wicked jewel under a pile of rocks. Covering it with your hands does little to blunt its evil effects.”
Merlin walked to the cave’s edge, guided by a dim, flickering light. He found a flat rock and placed the candlestone underneath.
With a great snuff from his nostrils, Clefspeare blew a stream of flame at an iron stand on the wall, igniting a rag-topped torch. “Aaah! Now we have better light.” He looked back at Arthur and this time merely bowed his head. “Your Majesty, welcome to my humble abode.”
King Arthur bowed in return, much more gracefully than did the dragon, but his voice carried a slight tremble. “After fighting alongside you in the heat of battle, I am honored to visit the home of the greatest of the dragon warriors.”
Clefspeare nodded again. “Your words are overstated, yet still treasured.”
“How long has it been since the battle?” the king asked. “Three years?”
“Three years and six months, to be precise. Forty-two months of fleeing Devin and his band of slayers.”
Arthur drooped his head. “Yes, it took quite some time for Merlin to convince me of the truth. My apologies seem shallow in the wake of so many dead dragons.”
“Heartfelt apologies are always deep, and perhaps yours are not too late.” Clefspeare turned to Merlin. “Am I to understand that your presence signals the coming transformation?”
“Yes, Clefspeare.”
“How many are assembling?”
Merlin shook his head. “I’m not sure. The slayers have been busy, so very few of you remain, I’m afraid. Hartanna is gathering the dragons who still honor the memory of Makaidos.”
Clefspeare let out a long, spark-filled sigh. “The corrupted ones have been our downfall, Merlin, as you prophesied. A fallen dragon is the most detestable beast on Earth.”
“And who can know,” Merlin added, “whether corruption hides in the hearts of the remnant? Hartanna is wise, but she cannot always detect the seeds of darkness that spread evil shadows within. She has examined them to the best of her ability, but even a dragon’s senses can be fooled.”
“True enough.” Clefspeare blinked at Arthur. “And the king? What is his role?”
“We will need his help after we are finished. I can trust no other.”
“But will the other dragons trust the one who commissioned the slayers to eliminate our race?” Clefspeare turned on his eyebeams and aimed them at the king. “We know of his deeds, and we have seen his valor in battle, but how can we know his heart?”
King Arthur strode boldly forward and stood directly in front of Clefspeare. “How else can a man’s heart be known, or even a dragon’s, if not by his deeds? To me, you look very much like the dragon that murdered my brother and sister right outside the very walls of Camelot, the beast which Sir Devin slew only last week. Against my earlier judgments, I was persuaded by the wise prophet to come to your lair in order to help the race that stole the lives of my beloved siblings. He has recounted your many deeds, deeds that have been explained away by your enemies as mere selfish desire for treasure. I learned why you accept the gifts of the wealthy after you do your mighty works. I also know of the appearance of these treasures in the homes of the poor, benefiting widows and orphans who now have good food on their tables and warm clothes on their backs. Your deeds have set you and your friends apart from the evil dragons, Clefspeare, and I have come to grant Merlin’s request and aid you in your time of need.”
Clefspeare bowed once again, this time with more agility. “Well spoken, wise king. I was wrong to dwell on your past mistakes. Forgive me for not accepting your earlier apologies.”
Arthur returned the bow. “All accounts are now clear between us, good dragon.”
Merlin picked up his bag, threw it over his shoulder, and placed a hand on Clefspeare’s flank. “I have summoned all the remaining noble dragons to Bald Top. Come, now. We must fly to the meeting place.”
“Master Merlin!” Clefspeare’s beams shifted toward the cave entrance. “You and the king must climb on my back. Make haste. I smell danger.”
Merlin squinted at him. “You will allow the king to ride?”
“No time to argue!” Clefspeare growled.
Merlin reached for the torch and stamped it out, then, with the scales’ luminescent glow guiding their way, he and Arthur scrambled up the dragon’s scaly flank, stepped to his spiny middle ridge, and seated themselves at the base of his neck.
Merlin held on with one hand while gripping his saddlebag with the other. “Do slayers approach?”
“Most likely.” Clefspeare straightened his tail. “Heads down and hold on!”
“Wait!” Merlin shouted. “The candlestone!”
“No time! And I will not fly if you carry that cursed dragon’s bane!”
With a great flap of his wings, Clefspeare rose from the ground and hovered in the midst of the cave. After taking in a deep breath, he blew out a raging river of fire. Then, slowly at first and still breathing fire, he moved forward into the stream, floating easily on the cushion of flaming air. As they passed through the tunnel, accelerating as they traveled, Merlin peered through the passing inferno. Flames bounced in all directions, and two shadows dove for cover in the rocks. Within seconds, Clefspeare burst into the open and launched into the clear, night sky.
Arthur gripped Clefspeare’s spine with both hands. “Amazing!”
“Hang on!” Merlin called. “We have to get higher than their arrows can reach.”
When their angle of ascent tapered off and they reached a safe altitude, Clefspeare snorted a final puff of smoke. “I apologize, Your Highness, for the rough ride.”
The king took a deep breath in the cold, thin air. “It was exhilarating! A masterful escape!”
“Could you tell if Sir Devin was among the attackers?” Merlin asked.
Arthur shook his head. “I saw only shadows.”
“I saw him,” Clefspeare said. “His lust for my blood is stronger than ever.”
Merlin looked out over the scene far below, a shifting gray canvas with firelight speckling the shadows cast by the ghostly moon. “The drug I slipped into Devin’s mead wasn’t timed as well as I had hoped, but at least he will be far from Bald Top while we take the next step in my plan.”