“She must have had a container of lava nearby,” I say.
“Perhaps. But there’s plenty of lava on that island. Avoid confronting her near a hot spring. Also, we’ve heard numerous reports out of Japan concerning her cloaking gene.”
“I have that one.”
“You can alter your appearance and you’ve made a good start at using the gene. But Viper’s ability is highly developed. She can make herself invisible.”
“Shit!” I gasp.
“It’s a problem. But keep in mind she’s young—all the contestants in the Field are young, fifteen to twenty-one. Viper’s only sixteen and to be able to turn invisible at her age is unheard of. I’m sure it requires all her strength to disappear, and I doubt she can keep it up for long. Also, even when she’s invisible, you should be able to see an outline of her in the moonlight. Plus, in the bright sunlight, you should see a faint shadow on the ground. For that reason, it’s best to catch her out in the open beneath the moon or sun. Otherwise, you’ve got to hear her coming.”
“What if she’s carrying a knife or machete? Will they be invisible too?”
“If they’re touching her skin,” Cleo says.
“She sounds like a nightmare. But Nordra’s got to be a psychopath as well. Most of his victims were dismembered.”
Cleo speaks firmly. “That’s not his style. Viper probably did that to his victims after they’d been killed to send a message to all the other witches in the Field that she’s coming for them.”
“To scare us?” I ask.
“If you like, yes.”
“Lovely,” I mutter. “I told you about the ones we call the ‘ghosts.’ What’s their story?”
“The fact they’re fighting in the Field is a surprise. I haven’t seen a ‘ghost’—the Council calls them by the same name—since Ancient Egypt. Kendor told me that he and Syn spotted a few of them outside Rome not long after the death of Caesar. The ghosts have only been seen in groups, never alone. They’re extremely telepathic, even when young. It was the belief of the ancient Tar that they somehow function together as a hive mind.”
“You mean they don’t see themselves as individuals?”
“We’re not sure. Our knowledge of them is sketchy. I’ve heard rumors of them being seen in odd places—high in the Andes and the Himalayas. There was one report they had been spotted in Antarctica. But that was back in the eighteenth century.”
“But who are they? What are they?”
“They’re human beings, like you and I, witches. My mentor told me they were highly respected during the Atlantean era, although reclusive. It was my understanding they never socialized with normal people. Perhaps their appearance kept them apart or the fact that they don’t speak.”
“They’re mute?”
“Their telepathic gifts are apparently so great they have no need to speak. I wouldn’t be surprised if their vocal cords have atrophied due to lack of use.”
“They sure can run. I got the impression they were trying to lead me to Nordra so he could kill me.”
“That’s probably their wisest strategy—to hope the rest of you wipe each other out. Whatever you do, don’t underestimate them just because they appear physically weak. To have survived for so long, and stayed hidden, means they must be intelligent.”
“Do you know anything about the other two witches on the island?”
“No. Try to discover their names and I’ll find out what I can.” Cleo adds, “For all we know, Nordra or Viper might have already killed them.”
A silence settles between us. For my part, Cleo’s hit me with a ton of information, most of it unpleasant, and it’s taking me time to absorb. But what Cleo’s thinking I have no idea.
“I need to understand more about the Field,” I say finally. “I can understand why a group of witches would be put on a secluded island to battle for superiority. But why have we been assigned the others?”
“The Field exists to test your leadership qualities as well as your power. The majority of people in the world are not witches. A true leader has to be able to command both—witches and humans.”
“Hold on. Surely the Tar don’t use the Field to pick who’s going to be next in line? I mean, you didn’t become the head of the Council by fighting in the Field?”
“I’m the head of the Council because the others treat me as the head. I have no official position.”
“But was that always the case in the past?”
“The Field is ancient. I first heard of it over ten thousand years ago, from my mentor. Back then there were no Lapras, which isn’t to say there were no evil witches. In that time, the Field was used to pick a single world leader.”
I’ve never heard Cleo admit she was so old.
“One who would lead both the good and the bad witches?”
“One who would lead the whole world,” Cleo replies.
“When was it last used?”
“Long, long ago,” Cleo says.
“Were the contestants always sent to an island?”
“They were sent to the island where you are now, with the identical number of witches and non-witches. Six groups of six.”
“What was it like when you were a contestant?”
Cleo hesitates. “I can’t answer that question at this time.”
“Why not? You’ve already admitted you were there.”
Cleo tries deflecting the question but she just raises more. “You’re wondering if your partners might be potential witches. That’s for you to discover.”
“Come on, Cleo!” I complain, for all the good it does me.
“No.”
“Then tell me this. The rules of the Field—they were presented to us on a plaque. It said, ‘To protect the righteous and slay the wicked. Six of six are called to the Field. To live. To fight. To die. One will survive.’” I pause. “What the hell does it all mean?”
“Understand, long ago, the selection of a new leader was considered a momentous event. Whoever was chosen did protect society from the wicked. And in those days there were a lot more witches than there are now, and many were evil. To be blunt, the plaque means what it says.”
“It makes no sense that someone so young, no matter how powerful, should emerge victorious from the Field and assume leadership of the whole world.”
“Surviving the Field is the first step to leadership. Other tests follow, and by the time they’re completed the person isn’t so young.”
“I see,” I say, although I’m not sure if I do. “What about the last line on the plaque? If I win, if I kill all the other witches, can other members of my group also survive?”
Cleo takes time to answer. “I was your age when I asked my mentor that same question. He told me that there was no reason a good-hearted witch should harm his or her own people. Yet he said there had never been a time when a normal person had survived the Field.”
I think of Marc and my throat constricts; it makes my voice tight. “There’s always a first time,” I whisper.
“True, Jessica. I know you’ll do everything in your power to protect your people. That’s who you are. Now, it’s essential you accept the Alchemist’s offer. Go to the house he led you to. He’s already told you that Syn and Kendor are waiting to prepare you. You’ve already lost a day in witch world by not working with them on Sunday. Don’t waste another.”
“How can you be so sure they can help me?”
“Kendor told you once that you have the identical genetic makeup as Syn. And you can be sure he trained her to use all her abilities. You could have no better teachers than the two of them.” She pauses. “But be careful. Never reveal to them Syn’s future. We cannot be sure what year the Alchemist has plucked them from, but it’s probably from before she turned toward the darkness.”
“Kendor doesn’t even know me now. Why should he help
me?”
“The Alchemist must have told him why he’s in this time. Also, for whatever it’s worth, Kendor only knew you for a few days in Las Vegas, yet in that short time he loved you. And I think you loved him.”
“That was then,” I protest, wiping away a tear.
“Love is never lost, Jessica. Not even time can erase it. Go to him and you’ll see. He’ll welcome you and help you.” Cleo pauses. “I’m sure Syn will do the same.”
“I’ll do what you say.”
* * *
It’s not easy to knock on the door of the house the Alchemist led me to in Pacific Palisades. I’m not afraid for my life—I doubt the sorcerer would have gone to so much trouble just to kill me. I’m more worried about meeting Syn and Kendor. I don’t share Cleo’s confidence that they’ll be happy to see me.
Syn answers the door. I’ve forgotten how beautiful she is. Her skin’s a light brown, smooth and radiant, and her black hair is cut shorter than I remember; it barely touches the shoulders of her white summer dress. She smiles when she sees me, and with just a glance in my direction her dark eyes seem to cast a spell.
“You must be Jessica,” she says.
“Yes. How do you know my name?”
“William told us to expect you,” she replies, opening the door wider. “Please come in.”
The house is lovely, rich; the architect clearly designed it with one mandate in mind—to take advantage of the ocean views. Syn leads me to a large living room, where the windows reach to a second-story ceiling. Polished cedar frames the glass rows. Most people would label the style modern. The sofa and chairs are white leather, the tabletops are made of thick stone. Yet the abundance of wood on the walls and stairway adds a cozy feel.
Syn beckons for me to have a seat as Kendor enters from the backyard. Whatever age he’s been plucked from, his clothes have not changed much. He has on the same black leather pants and boots, although his short-sleeved shirt is gray and looks like it was purchased at the mall where I first spotted them. Like before, his dark blond hair is long and uncombed, and if there’s a more sexy man on the planet, I’ve never met him. Like Cleo, Kendor has an aura of immense power, yet he approaches me shyly, bowing and kissing my hand. He introduces himself and welcomes me to their home.
Together we sit in the center of the room, forming a peculiar triangle. I don’t know who looks more uncertain—them or me. Yet I sense they’re glad to see me, although I must admit my own emotions are more complex. My last vision of Kendor was of him falling to the floor, his heart pierced, with Syn standing over him with a bloody knife.
I glance around. “Are we alone?” I ask.
“William has been gone two days,” Syn replies. “He did not say when he would be back.”
“William?” I repeat, turning to Kendor. “Is that another name for the Alchemist?”
Kendor nods. “I am sure the man has many names.”
I smile nervously. “Well, I’ve only got two. Jessica Ralle. You can call me Jessie if you want.”
“And you know us?” Kendor says carefully, questioning.
“Yes. You’re Syn and Kendor.”
Syn frowns. “How long have you known us?”
“What did William tell you?” I ask. “I mean, I’m not trying to be evasive. I’m just wondering. . . . Do you know where you are? What year it is?”
Kendor and Syn exchange a dark look. Kendor answers.
“William has explained these things to us. We are from what you would call the sixth century, and he has brought us forward in time fifteen hundred years to prepare you for the Field.”
I do a quick mental calculation. Syn and Kendor met and married around 47 BC, and had a son, Robere, in AD 386. Unfortunately, when the Huns attacked Rome in 431, Robere was pinned to a tree by a javelin and died. The Kendor I knew, the one I met in Las Vegas last month, told me that Syn grieved over the loss of her son for ages.
Yet I’m hoping Syn’s healed over the past century. Because it was the repeated loss of her children and grandchildren over the long years that led to her eventual obsession with evil.
“Pleasure for pain,” she used to call it.
“You know about the Field?” I say.
Kendor speaks. “I know of it, Syn does not. But most of what I know has come to me from rumors and legends. I never fought in it.”
“Not like Cleo?” I say, fishing.
Kendor is impressed. “You are friends with Cleo? That is good. We were not told that. I am surprised she spoke of her time in the Field. It was a secret she hid from me for a long time.” His face darkens. “She never got over what happened there.”
“Pardon me,” Syn says. “This may sound rude but I must ask. How long have we known you in this time? What is our relationship?”
The way she phrases the questions, it’s clear the Alchemist hasn’t told them that they’re dead in this time. Hell, I think. The two must be wondering why their present-day incarnations are not around to tutor me.
I hesitate. “Not long. But we’re friends.”
“True friends?” Syn asks.
I’m not sure what she means by “true.” Nevertheless, I’m surprised at the quality of their English. Except for a faint accent I can’t place, they could be understood by most people in town.
I recall that Kendor once told me he was able to pick up languages easily and that Syn had a photographic memory. Still, except for the absence of contractions, their phrasing is remarkably modern. I remind myself they were probably living in Sicily when the Alchemist swept them into our time.
Also, they’re not dazed like when I saw them at the mall. It makes me wonder if this is their same “time trip” to my century. What I mean is, this could be the third or fourth time the Alchemist brought them to the twenty-first century, while two days ago could have been the first time. It’s a weird idea but that’s the problem in trying to analyze a time traveler’s state of mind. I mean, how can I get things straight in my own head when I’m dealing with people who are not living linear lives?
“I like to think so,” I reply carefully.
“When did you see us last?” she asks.
“Not long ago. Maybe four weeks ago.”
Syn frowns. “William refused to explain why our counterparts in this time are unable to prepare you for the Field. I did not press the matter but I assume that must mean we are already dead—at this time. But you say we are not. Perhaps you can better explain why we are here?”
“Is it a hardship for you to be here?” I ask, wanting to change the subject. “I imagine it would be exciting to travel through time, and confusing. Most of what you see must seem strange.”
“Strange and wonderful,” Kendor says. “William took us to a place where ‘jets’ take off into the sky. They are so big, so heavy, and yet they seem to float into the air. To us they look like magic.”
I smile. “I saw you eating ice cream. How was that?”
Kendor grins. “I could eat it all day and have nothing else.”
“That’s great,” I reply.
“Why do you avoid my question?” Syn asks suddenly.
I consider. Syn and Kendor are both perceptive. Lying to them is risky. I decide the more truth I can tell the better.
“You know the Alchemist better than I do,” I say. “I only met him for the first time two days ago. I’m not sure why he’s gone to all this trouble to bring you here. I’ve been asking myself the same question. It’s not like I’m an important person.”
“You must be important to be fighting in the Field,” Syn says.
I shrug. “I have many powers but most are undeveloped. To be blunt, the reason I came here today is because I was hoping you could show me how to use them. In the other world I’m already in the Field and fighting for my life.”
Kendor studies me. “You remind me of Syn. What
are your gifts?”
“I’m supposed to have seven but can only use four: intuition; speed and strength; healing; and I can cloak myself.” I stop and shake my head. “Cleo said I have the ability to alter time but told me I won’t be able to use it for a long time. So I suppose it can’t help me at this time.”
“It can take a long time,” Syn agrees quietly.
Kendor stands. “The day moves on. Let us see what you can do. And while we test you, tell us everything you know about your opponents. Since you are already fighting in the Field, I doubt you need to be told how dangerous it is. Still, I feel I must tell you. Cleo herself barely made it out of there alive.”
“I understand. Only one can survive.”
He nods. “Only one.”
Kendor leads me into the backyard and I expect Syn to follow but she leaves us alone. Perhaps she thinks her husband is the master warrior, and I don’t need her help. Maybe she doesn’t like me, I don’t know. Certainly she is wary. Although Kendor appears to have accepted the switch in time, I can tell Syn resents having her life interrupted by the Alchemist.
We have that much in common.
Neither of us can stand to be controlled.
The curious thing is that I know, from having spoken to Kendor in Las Vegas, that both of them will have only the faintest memories of having been in our time.
Kendor has available an assortment of primitive weapons: swords, spears, bows and arrows, handheld iron shields. He tests how I handle each one and suddenly stops when I pick up a sword and feel its balance before I move into a fighting stance.
“Who taught you to do that?” he demands.
Herme, Kendor’s son, recently taught me the basics of sword fighting, and naturally Kendor taught him, despite the fact that Kendor had specifically told me that his son had wanted nothing to do with the fighting arts. When Herme had begun to teach me, I’d asked him why his father had lied. Herme had smiled and shaken his head and said, “My father trained me every day straight, for ten years, before I told him no more. Yet to my dad, a decade of hard study was equivalent to nothing.”