Chapter Twenty-One

We're falling, the frightened one whispered.

Ghean took a deliberately deep breath, leaning her head against the window and looking down six miles to the featureless ocean below. A yawn cracked her jaw, and she passed a hand over her eyes, trying to rub away weariness. She'd learned, over the last decades, to sleep in cars and trains, allowing the gentle motion to lull her into rest, despite the speed at which they traveled.

Planes were a different matter. Falling, the frightened one whimpered again. The sky can't hold us up. We're falling.

We are not falling, she thought impatiently, but shivered anyway. Traveling so far above the earth's surface, at a nearly unfathomable rate, still seemed unnatural. The roar of the jet engines sounded, even after almost a century, like the sheering scream of stone crashing apart as Atlantis fell.

The sound of the world ending, the patient one said. It is not ending. We're safe.

I know, she told it.

Falling, the frightened one repeated, softly. The plane bumped into an air pocket, and Ghean stiffened, fingers clenched around the arm rests. You see! screamed the frightened one, and Ghean set her jaw, denying the voice.

The seat next to her was empty. Too many concerned colleagues had asked after her welfare in the past, their concern distracting Ghean from squelching the panicked little voice in her mind. After several flights, she simply made the habit of purchasing not only her own seat, but the one next to her, assuring privacy in her personal terror.

She'd learned to meet extended turbulence with a calm exterior. The war with the frightened voice almost made it easier to do so. The struggle to keep from shouting its fears aloud excluded the outside world almost enough to ignore bumps and rattles entirely.

Airplanes are an astonishing invention, the patient one insisted. It takes only hours to fly from Chicago to Greece. Such a journey would have been undertaken only with great care and nerve, from Atlantis, and would have taken many, many months.

I appreciate that, Ghean grated silently, on an intellecutal level. They used to make the trip, to South America, to get the beans for coffee and chocolate.

Yes, the patient one said smugly. They would have embraced flight, the scholars and scientists of Atlantis. So should we.

"I'm on the plane, aren't I?" she growled, and wished for a book. It had taken her nearly two decades to shed the habit of translating what she read into Atlantean, and she was still a slow reader. Fiction held little interest for her, and scientific texts were too rarely written in a captivating manner. Dry lectures were not what she needed to take her mind off the miles of air beneath the plane. On the rare occasions that a piece of technical literature captured her attention, she would devour the article or book in her slow, intensive way, and then read every other piece by the author she could locate. Those infrequent happenings made air travel almost pleasant. It was the only time she could spend uninterrupted hours deeply involved in reading.

Usually, though, she spent entire flights with her forehead pressed against the window, waiting for the plane to fall out of the sky. That she was guaranteed survival from the feared disaster -- barring the unlikely event that schrapnel would separate her head from her shoulders -- didn't reassure the frightened one in any way. It was the falling that was terrifying, the uncontrolled plunge towards the earth.

More than four thousand years, she thought tiredly. There's so little difference between free fall in the air and the weightlessness of the temple. Do I fear it more or less for its familiarity? Idle fingers twisted her ring around on her thumb. When she noticed the nervous movement, Ghean stopped it deliberately, placing her hands neatly in her lap.

The bright, hard light of the tiny overhead lightbulb leeched color from her hands, rendering them a pasty yellow. The scars on her fingertips were more visible, the ruined pads bouncing a different quality of light back at her. Ghean lifted one hand, propping her elbow on the arm rest, and stared at her fingers, trying to remember how they had looked before her captivity.

"What happened?" Michael's voice, behind her, made Ghean flinch violently, reaching for the sword she didn't carry on the plane. "To your fingers," he added, coming around the seats to take the one next to Ghean. "I always wanted to ask, but it seemed terribly invasive."

Ghean closed her hands in loose fists, hiding the scars. "A chainsaw. I tried picking one up by the blade when I was very small, and somehow the power switch got knocked on. It shredded my fingertips."

"My God," Michael said. "You're lucky your hands weren't cut to pieces entirely."

"So I've been told," Ghean agreed. "Why are you awake?"

"Guilty conscience," he smiled, then shook his head. "I woke up a little while ago, and just called back to the university. We've had a windfall."

Ghean's eyebrows lifted a little. "Publisher's Clearinghouse called?"

Michael laughed. "Very nearly. Evidently someone at the lecture last night was quite taken with the topic, or perhaps the speaker." He dropped a wink behind his round glasses. "A gentleman called at the University this morning with a cashier's check in hand for seven million dollars, for the Atlantis excavation fund."

Ghean's eyebrows went a little higher. "How extraordinarily generous. And what did he want in return?"

"So young, yet so cynical. He wanted to join us, along with a friend of his, on the explorations. Apparently one is a scholar of some repute, and the other -- the donor, in fact -- used to run an antique shop."

Ghean's eyebrows lowered, something of a respectful smile playing around her mouth. Very clever, Methos. It's not a tact I expected. "Did these distinguished gentlemen have names?"

"The donor is a fellow called Duncan MacLeod. Apparently he's more along for the ride; it's his friend, the scholar, who's chomping at the bit for the opportunity to see Atlantis. He may imagine there's a paper or a book in it somewhere, though I'll be damned if I'll give away those rights to the first fellow who happens along."

Ghean pursed her lips, lifting a hand to tap her thumb against her mouth as she searched for the name Methos had asked her to call him. "Adam," she said after a moment. "Adam Pierson, is he your scholar?"

"Good Lord." Michael's eyebrows sailed up from behind his glasses. "You know him?"

"I have known Adam," Ghean said, rolling the words in her mouth with a certain delight, "a very long time."

"Well!" Michael sat back, pleased. "The University's slavering over the check, of course, but they wanted to talk to us before actually accepting it." He paused, thoughtful. "I imagine they'd tell us to go straight to hell if we declined, but since Dr. Pierson's an old friend of yours, I'll let them know it won't be a problem at all for them to accompany us."

"Just Pierson," Ghean interjected. "The research sub is tiny enough, and MacLeod's a big man."

Michael looked at her, startled. "Mr. MacLeod is the man with the money, Mary."

"Adam," Ghean said firmly, "is the one who wants this. Just Pierson, or neither of them go. Duncan will accept it."

"You know him too?"

Ghean smiled faintly. "I met him last night, in fact. Adam introduced me. Adam Pierson was the friend I thought I'd seen in the audience after the lecture. He studies myths." Certainly that's what he did in the Watchers. Ghean grinned at the irony, stretching her toes out under the seat in front of her. "I'm sure he'll make a fascinating addition to our team. His knowledge of the ancient world is unparalleled."

"Really," Michael said with interest. "I don't think I've ever heard of him."

"He's very withdrawn," Ghean explained blithely. "I don't know if he's taught anywhere except in private institutions, and I don't think he's published anything in years, if ever. He's the sort of person who likes knowledge for its own sake, although he does adore lecturing people." She narrowed her eyes at the seat back in front of her, examining the folds in the leather as she thought.

We may as well paint him impossibly bright, the patient one advised. Our own knowledge can only be pressed so far under the guise of inspiration. If we can use Methos to crack the secrets of Atlantis, so much the better.

We'll be caught, the frightened one whispered dismally.

Ghean ignored the second voice. "I would hazard a guess that he knows more about the Atlantis legends and possibilities than anyone else on the planet."

"Except you," Michael teased. Ghean shot a brown-eyed smile at him.

"Except me," She agreed. "Really, though. His knowledge of the ancient world is really quite extraordinary." Expression straight, she added, "You'd think he'd been there." Fighting a grin, she shook her head, and continued, "I'd wager money on him being able to make a good stab at translating Atlantean text, if we find any. If there's any ancient language it resembles, he'll be able to construct some sense out of it."

"Mary Kostani," Michael said, amused, "I don't think I've ever heard you wax quite so lyrical about anyone's talents before. Just how good of friends were you?"

"We were . . . very good friends," Ghean said, with half a smile. Something about the phrase bothered her, and she fell silent a moment, the smile fading to a frown before she shook her head, giving up on the thought. "But it was a long time ago. Things have changed."

"Ah. A falling out? Well, I'll restrain my curiousity. Shall I give the University a call back and tell them we'd be glad to accept Mr. MacLeod's generousity and we'd be delighted to invite Dr. Pierson along on the exploratory vessel? How old is the fellow, anyway? He can't be too much older than you if you were, ah. Such good friends. But if he's as widely read as you suggest . . . ." Michael trailed off with a frown.

Ghean brushed the concern aside with a wave of her hand. "I don't look old enough for my credentials, do I?" she asked teasingly. ""Adam and I both began studying the ancien tworld when we were very young." Black-edged amusement colored her eyes darker a moment. "Perhaps past lives haunt us somewhere deep in our souls, and can't be put to rest until we've settled their accounts for them."

Michael started to smile, but it faltered. "Sometimes, Mary," he said nervously, "I can't quite tell when you're joking."

Ghean's smile was real this time. "Isn't it more interesting this way?" She pressed her head against the seat, leaning her forehead next to the crack between the seats. "Go call the university back, Michael, and make noses about how flattered we are that such a distinguished scholar would be interested in our little project. It's a drop in the hat compared to what we'll ultimately need, but it's a nice gesture and it certainly won't hurt the coffer. External support is bound to beget more external support, and we're going to sink an awful lot of money into the Mediterranean over the next decade."

Michael grinned, standing to return to his own seat. "You don't think in the short-term, do you, Mary?"

Ghean turned her head to rest her forehead against the window again. "You have no idea."

Methos is going to be a complication, the patient one said thoughtfully. He'll be convienent for a time. We can use him to further our findings, but in time he'll grow bothersome.

At least I know where he is now, Ghean retorted. I know he's alive.

I never doubted he was, she realized. Even finding his notes in the Watcher files only confirmed the conviction that he was alive. After forty-five centuries, another mere century and a half wouldn't be enough to kill him.

We don't need to, the patient one broke in, firmly. Number the years or don't, but we don't need to dwell on it. We're a part of the world again now.

Ghean nodded a little, against the plexiglass window. I didn't really believe he could die, no matter how much time went by. Not after watching him heal. Not after how easily he bested Aroz.

He marked me. The thought came as a sudden understanding. Without intending to, perhaps, but he marked me with the certainty that he would endure.

I'm sure he would appreciate that belief. Ghean smiled faintly at the grey water far below. Appreciate it, and encourage it. Immortals can die, though. Some are easier to kill than others. Methos won't be at all easy to take, but it can be done.

He's the superior swordsman, the patient one warned. Have no doubt of that. We have passion on our side, though, and a desire for revenge that he can't possibly understand. Ghean nodded again, noticed she was fiddling with the ring once more, and painstakingly folded her fingers together in her lap.

I thought Atlantis might make him surface, but I didn't think it would be so easy. What would I have done if he'd never come forward? If he'd been dead?

It doesn't matter, the patient one said again. It didn't happen. We needed him to be alive, and he is.

We had eternity to search for him, the patient one pointed out. The odds were very good. In less than a century, we found him. And now he's invited himself along on our quest, so we can keep an eye on him, and use him as we see fit. It is as it should be.

Ghean nodded. I'm sure he wouldn't have revealed the location of the Book of Aquarius if we hadn't surprised him so much, she congratulated herself. If he'd known we were alive, or that we'd find him, he'd have thought out his story to tell it without letting us know where the Book was. How very fortunate.

The Book, the patient one purred. A treasure we hadn't even considered, legendary even to us, and now we know where it is.

The temple was so nearly destroyed, the frightened one protested. The room below won't be there anymore. It'll have melted away into nothing, the Book will be ashes, drowned ashes, nothing more. The tunnels will be collapsed, the room flooded, the stone burned, Book drowned. It's too late. There's nothing there. Atlantis is gone and only we remain, high in the sky. We'll fall. We're falling.

No. Ghean pushed the frightened voice away, rejecting out of hand the idea that the Book might have been destroyed. I survived. Methos survived. Even Minyah survived. The Book will be there. I need it to be there, so it will be. I needed Methos and he's alive. The Book will be there.

The Book. Ghean nestled back into the airplane seat, comfortable. Her diminutive size was enough to make coach seating passable; the roomy first class seats were luxurious. She tapped the call button for a flight attendent. A tall young man appeared moments later, smiling. "What can I do for you, ma'am?"

"A gin and tonic, please," she requested, and smiled as it was delivered in under a minute. "Thank you." Lifting the glass to her mouth, she loked out the window again, almost content despite the flight.

Her first plan had been to search out the remaining artifacts. Atlantis' ruins were secondary to the tiny woman, more a bitter reminder of a childhood lost than the archaelogical find of the century. Somewhere in the city are items of incredible power. This century I've been reborn into is nearly advanced enough to unravel their secrets.

So many of the artifacts have already been lost. The Fleece, gone since the days of Jason and the Argonauts. For an instant, Ghean's expression darkened as she thought about the legend. If Methos was telling the truth, Mother had only been dead a few decades when that adventure happened. Two millennia of life ended by a child's selfishness.

Two thousand years while I lived and died in a lightless prison beneath the sea. Ghean shuddered, pulling her thoughts away before she spiralled down into pointless rage at the wasted centuries.

Good, the patient one whispered approvingly.

The chalice, found and lost again in Christ's time; the cauldron destroyed, according to Welsh legend, when a living man climbed in it to end the evil of raising men from the dead. Curious, Ghean thought, that three of the thirteen artifacts appeared in the islands of Britain, when the rest are so widely scattered. The other two, the sword lost to a lake and the scabbard to a battle, were among the last to be lost, by legend and history's tales. Arthur who bore the magical blade had lived only fifteen centuries ago.

I wonder if Methos was there. I wonder if he recognized the blade as Atlantean work, from a life he'd left behind long ago. Ghean sighed, closing her eyes as she sipped at her drink.

The unicorns died with the island. Methuselah's stone I've seen myself, nearly all the crystals kept safe in the Watcher's headquarters in Paris. Rebecca, Ghean remembered vaguely, was the Immortal who'd had the crystal. Over the years she'd scattered pieces of it out to her students, and over the years they'd died, their Watchers collecting the pieces until only one last piece was missing. Ghean regretted, briefly, not taking the time to see who of the remaining students had the last piece, but she'd left the Watchers long before the technology for excavating Atlantis was available, and at the time the recovery of the final crystal hadn't been important enough to pursue.

Even the Dragon's Teeth were scattered around the world. Both Greek and Chinese legends told tales of stones cast to the ground to sprout undead warriors. It seems safe to believe those gifts are also irretrievable.

There are others, though, Ghean thought smugly. Artifacts that never appeared in legend. Cuthmesh is one. The Book is another. There was the girdle, and the helmet, both of which were supposed to protect the wearer. They must be down there under the waves. We'll study them, and maybe we'll find a way to replicate them.

But the Book would be the ulimate treasure. Ghean swirled her drink, watching the liquid flow. The hole in the temple will have to be expanded, but maybe we can pump the water out, leave the floor cleared so we can excavate beneath it without flooding the lower room. Ghean took another sip, frowning. I wonder if the temple will be able to take the pressure from outside if it's not equalized within.

It doesn't matter, the patient one said. We don't have to worry about it today. If Methos is right, the Book is sealed in one of the artist's boxes. Unless it's been physically cracked open, it won't leak, so the Book will be safe even if we have to flood the secret room.

We'll prove Atlantis a great civilization, with the Book, Ghean thought triumphantly. We'll find a way to rebuild it, using the Book, and for those who help us we'll learn how to make new artifacts, and share them. It's a fitting tribute to a city that died in such an untimely way. Eternal life for its new citizens.

Methos won't approve, with his unwillingness to share Immortality with the world. Ghean clucked her tongue quietly, shaking her head.

Methos will only be part of the equation as long as he is useful, the patient one reminded her. We won't need him, by the time we're ready to rebuild Atlantis. We can kill him long before that.

Ghean smiled, turning her attention to the window again, lifting her glass to sip at her drink. Light bounced off her ring, catching in the engraved lion's head that marked the surface of gold.