Sword of the Gods: Agents of Ki (Sword of the Gods Saga) (26 page)

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November 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Mikhail

The sunlight streamed through the window and glared into Mikhail's eyes, increasing the pounding which marched in martial tempo to the pain which radiated out of his chest with every heartbeat. It hurt to keep his eyes open and everything felt as though it was on fire.

"Drink," Needa whispered. Something pressed against his lips.

He took a sip, thankful to quench the burning in his throat, then grabbed his abdomen as the water caused his stomach to clench in pain.

"You have to drink," Needa pressed her hand against his forehead. "Immanu said the knife-wound is infected with a type of evil spirit the likes of which he's never seen."

An uneasy feeling gripped at his gut, but perhaps that was just the urge to vomit?

"Where is Ninsianna?"

"Sleeping in the next room," Needa caressed his forehead. "Just get better, son. As soon as you get better you can go and find her."

Her hand felt cool against his forehead. He closed his eyes and the room faded.
When he opened them again he was in a different room, one which was filled with children. He looked up at the ancient dark-winged Angelic who walked at his side.

"Why are we here, Seanmháthair?"

"You are five now, beag iolar," she brushed his hair away from his forehead. "It's time to start looking for your one true mate."

He clung to her hand as they walked through the room. The games the other Angelics played were enticing, but no game beckoned. They were all just games.

When he awoke the next time Needa had been replaced by Homa, one of his eight original archers and now one of Needa's apprentices. She was a sturdy girl, not much older than Ninsianna, a bit silly, but there was no sign of mirth in her face as she tended to him now. She kept her face averted, as if she feared to make eye contact.

"Homa," Mikhail croaked, "where is Ninsianna?"

Homa looked startled. "She's asleep in the next room." She glanced towards the doorway with a worried expression.

"And Immanu?"

"He went to the basket-weaver to get a tincture of tar-coal," Homa said. "It will help with the poison the Evil One used to taint his knife."

A sensation akin to having his chest flayed open made him want to tear at his bandages. He tried to scratch it, but Homa grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze. Ninsianna would have his head on a platter if she walked in and caught Homa holding his hand, but somehow he doubted the apprentice healer was displaying 'an affection' for him as Ninsianna claimed whenever she was jealous.

He closed his eyes and the room spun some more.
When he opened them again, he was in another room, bigger than the first one.

"Why are we here, Seanmháthair?" he asked.

A hand brushed against his forehead, cool, worried.

"You are eight years old," Seanmháthair said, "and yet you have formed no attachments with any of the other children."

He stared across the room full of worried families. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Just find the game which feels -right-," Seanmháthair said. She brushed back his hair away from his forehead, her hand cool against the heat of his skin.

"His fever's gotten worse," Homa said. "You'd better summon Immanu."

Seanmháthair led him through a room where children had paired off into pairs, laughing and playing games, but there was no one here for him.

"She's not here," Mikhail said.

'Are you certain?'

"Yes."

When he woke up again, a foul-scented poultice reeking of bitumen and sulfur sat upon his chest. He had no memory of anyone changing his bandages, so he must have been asleep for quite some time. His mouth tasted so dry it felt as though someone had stuffed his mouth full of feathers.

"Water," he gasped.

Hands pressed the water-skin to his lips. He drank, then nearly gagged as his stomach clenched around it like a vice. Hot. He felt so hot. He flared his wings which lay helplessly beneath him, desperate to allow some air to flow through his feathers, desperate to cool himself down. The urge to scratch was so overwhelming it felt as though he wanted to claw his own heart out of his chest.

"Ninsianna," he whispered.

"I am here," the hands holding the waterskin said, but something about her touch did not feel right. For the first time it occurred to him that such a lack of connection was not normal between a husband and a wife.

'It's okay, beag iolar,' Seanmháthair squeezed his hand. 'When you find her, you will know her.'

"How?"

'It will just feel ... right.'

In the background Immanu chanted, but his voice had taken on a deeper, more ominous tone. A chill rustled through Mikhail's feathers as his fever shifted from hot to cold. That frantic feeling he'd been suppressing all day, the urge to curl up beside Ninsianna so he could reassure himself she was
safe
clenched at his gut.

"Immanu," Mikhail whispered. "Please ... where is Ninsianna?"

"You tell me?" Immanu said.

The sun had shifted so it no longer shone in the window. In the darkness, the shaman's tawny-beige eyes glowed that same luminescent shade of gold his daughter had possessed ever since the day she'd been
Chosen
by the goddess. This wasn’t just Immanu speaking, but She-who-is.

"She is asleep in the next room," Mikhail said.

Immanu turned to Homa. "Leave us."

Homa drew her cape around herself and hurried out, her expression fearful. As she left, the light caught a hint of red. Why was Homa wearing Ninsianna's red cape? That frantic feeling grew louder.

"Where is Ninsianna?"

"You claim you have no ability to feel the threads," Immanu said, "and yet when Ninsianna was in danger, twice you have flown straight to her, even when you had no idea where she would
be.
"

"It was not
her
," Mikhail said. "It was only Shahla. A ruse. You told me thus yourself."

"Humor me," Immanu said.

His father-in-law wore the same shock of wild, salt-and-pepper hair, the same bushy eyebrows, and the same bulbous nose that thank-the-goddess Ninsianna had not inherited, but there was a feline grace to the shaman's movement, his abilities enhanced by the power of She-who-is.

"Tell me, Champion. Where is your Chosen One now?"

"I cannot feel her," Mikhail said.

"Doesn't that bother you?"

"Yes."

"Then you must close your eyes and trace your connection to her," She-Who-Is-Immanu said, "so you can always find her in case you ever need to." His eyes glowed the color of fire. Grey tendrils of burning cedar wafted around him, making it appear as though he was a fire demon.

"I have never been able to trace the threads."

"You never -
wished-
to trace the threads," She-Who-Is-Immanu's voice rose sharp with anger. "You mock their spiritual beliefs and believe they are primitive, but when you need to, you can travel through the Dark Lord’s realm. So tell me, Champion?" Immanu's voice took on a frantic, desperate tone. "In which direction would you search for my Chosen One?"

"She is in the next room."

"What if you needed to go out and find her?" She-Who-Is-Immanu said. "In which direction would you begin the search?"

Feverish confusion pressed against Mikhail's brain and gave everything an ethereal unworldliness. Ninsianna had explained how all living creatures were connected to each other through the dreamtime via quantum entanglement, slender bonds of energy which
she
called threads. He'd never been able to
see
the threads, but if he focused, he'd begun to develop a sense of
feeling
them.

"Where is she?" She-Who-Is-Immanu grabbed his shoulder. "Tell me, winged one? Where is your wife?"

SHE
pushed him, but the power Mikhail drew upon whenever he invoked the Cherubim god wrapped itself around him and clawed him back, admonishing him that he was too weak to make this journey. That great yawning darkness which had inhabited his nightmares for as long as he could remember screamed at him to turn back, to play it safe; to stay in his body where eternity would not devour him alive, but the pressure of Immanu's fingers clenching his forearm pressed him on. She-Who-Is wished for him to master this ability, and so,
damantia
, did he!

He fought through the fog. He fought the pain. He fought against the blue light which tried to keep him centered in his body. He fought through the sound of Needa, having entered the room, screaming, "Dear gods, Immanu, what in the name of She-who-is do you think you are doing?"

"See her," Immanu's voice was a cry of anguish. "Please, son! In which direction I should begin the search for my daughter?"

The veil parted and suddenly he saw her, a golden beacon shining in the darkness. He reached for her, called her name, pleaded for her to come and hold him because the only thing he had ever feared was to die alone. The fog cleared, giving him a glimpse of where she lay. She lay not in her parent
's bed, but....

Mikhail's eyes shot open.

In his mind's eye, he felt Ninsianna scream.

~ * ~ * ~

November 3,390 BC

Earth Orbit:  Prince of Tyre

Ninsianna

All around her she dreamed of fire. She reached for the light of She-who-is, but although she could see the stars, no longer did they serenade her with their song. Beneath her back she could sense a hum. It felt neither hurtful nor helpful, but every ounce of her being screamed for her to get out of here!

"Mother!!!" Ninsianna cried out.

The playground of the goddess appeared as it always had whenever she journeyed into the Dreamtime, but no matter which way she ran, a cool, clear substance restrained her from reaching up to touch the swirling suns. There was plenty of light here, but it was a putrid green color, casting its malevolent light everywhere as it swirled around her like a sandstorm.

"Ibilisi, Ibilisi, Ibilisi," the vortex whispered to her. Through the sandstorm she saw an ebony-fleshed woman making a finger-gesture over her head as she chanted the same incantation over and over again. "Ibilisi, Ibilisi, Ibilisi." Ninsianna did not need her gift of tongues to understand the warning.

"Mother! Help!" she screamed, but the goddess could not hear.

Oh, gods! Her chest hurt.
She looked down with her goddess-kissed eyes and saw the thread which connected her abdomen to the place she had healed her husband when his sky canoe had crashed, but there was something wrong with it. Malevolent green tendrils snaked through their connection and turned it black, the color of sickness; the color of disease. She tried to draw light from the stars which no longer sang to her, to push it through the thread and heal him, but the cord which connected them was dying. -He- was dying; her beautiful winged husband who had fallen from the sky.