Chapter Fourteen

"Tell me about the room under the temple." Methos looked up as he asked the question, watching Ragar's reaction. It was a calculated gambit, one that paid off. Ragar paled, eyes widening as he opened his mouth, on the verge of asking how Methos had learned of it. Within a fraction of a second he regained control over his expression, shock panning away to mild perplexity.

"Room under the temple? I don't know of any such thing. The temple is set into the bedrock of Atlantis."

"So Ghean said." Methos stood, coming around the table the duo shared to lean on it, studying Ragar from above. "It must have been difficult to carve out, then."

The mortal scholar returned the ancient Immortal's gaze with evident confusion. "Truly," Ragar protested. "I know of no such room. What purpose would it serve?"

Methos sighed, straightening away from the table to pace the room with long, idle steps. "My guess," he said, turning his head to speak to directly to Ragar as he moved, "is that there is a tunnel, probably leading from House Aquarius, probably very deep in the stone, that leads directly to the room. A maze would be more clever, but it would also be a great deal more work, and most people who don't keep slaves tend to be a little more straightforward when it comes to hard labor. Of course, I'm assuming the histories haven't been adapted, and that Atlantis was never a civilization built on the backs of slaves."

"We are the favored of the gods," Ragar said stiffly. "We have no need to enslave other races."

"Ah." Methos nodded. "So the tunnel was dug by Atlanteans."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ragar repeated, only narrowly keeping from snapping the words out.

"The stone is soft enough to carve," Methos continued thoughtfully. "The small altar in the temple has only the shallow blood bowl, but the larger one outside seems to have a room for pooling blood beneath it. I presume it drains into the waste crevasses that Ghean told me about. How long do you think it would break into the other room, if I went into the blood room and started chiseling my way towards the temple?" He reached the far side of the room and began circling back the other way, still watching Ragar. "Probably from House Aquarius," he repeated, "from a room hidden underground itself; the artichects of Atlantis are too astute to fail to notice an extra wall or wing on the outside of the house that wasn't available from the inside."

Ragar frowned a little. Methos smiled in response, nodding slightly as he went on. "It must have been built at very nearly the same time Atlantis was, I'd think. The room constructed, the temple built on top of it, the tunnel dug and the Book of Aquarius stashed there, safe from prying eyes. Perhaps not even the head of the House knew where it went, so when someone got around to asking, maybe generations later, it really had disappeared. Only a handful of scholars still knew where it was."

Ragar's frown grew deeper. "All I told you about the Book was that it had been lost. Where did you come up with these ideas?"

"The priests are going to be very unhappy when I go into their blood room and start chopping a hole under their temple. I think Ertros might help me. He seemed enthusiastic about the prospect."

Ragar's eyebrows shot up. "Ertros told you about th-- " He broke off, eyes closing at his self-betrayal. "Ertros told you there was a room under the temple?" he asked, much more mildly.

Methos smiled faintly, returning to the table. "Ertros told me a children's story about a room under the temple. You just confirmed it. How much of it did I have right?"

Ragar sighed. "I'm going to have to invite that boy into House Taurus," he muttered. "He's too clever by half."

"He really was talking about chopping a hole in the temple floor," Methos warned. "I saw him the other night when I was leaving the temple and the thought struck him to try it in the middle of the night when no priests were around."

"He tried two years ago," Ragar said dryly. "At midday. If he weren't a commoner he'd have found the tunnel by the time he was nine. It's harder to get into the House grounds if you're not a member of one of the Houses."

Methos smiled. "Ghean said it was impossible to hide something from thirty generations of children. I realized she was right. Some of the more enterprising children had to have found the tunnel's entrance. Were you one of them?"

Ragar's expression was caught between defeat and the remains of a childhood pride. "I was," he allowed. "There are a few in every generation who do. They're almost all brought into the circle who know and protect the truth, and they virtually all become scholars."

Methos' eyes narrowed. "Almost all? What about the ones who aren't?"

"There are always one or two who aren't suited for the task of protecting the Book. Gods, man," Ragar said, staring at the dark look clouding Methos' face. "What do you think we do, drown them? They're given a drink that makes them susceptible to believing what they're told. We give them a story about a dead-end tunnel outside the city, and encourage them not to talk about it. They rarely do."

Methos relaxed a bit, nodding. "What about the ones who do?"

Ragar shrugged. "There's a dead-ened tunnel outside the city." He almost grinned. "How prosaic, hm? It's maintained so it won't be dangerous. They lose interest."

Methos brushed the explanation aside, satisfied that the refined Atlantean culture wasn't hiding a barbaric underside. "I want to see the Book, Ragar."

The other man shook his head, almost violently. "No one outside of Atlantis has ever read it. They would never let you near it."

"I'm not interested in what 'they' would do. Apprentice me, adopt me into your House; I don't care." The germ of an idea finally focused in Methos' mind, the real reason the hidden book was of such interest to him. If it really has the secrets of Immortality in it, perhaps we're explained somewhere in its pages. Older than I am, Minyah said about the city. Maybe somewhere in Atlantis' past, those who held the power to create the artifacts crossed paths with the first of us. Methos looked up, eyes intent on Ragar's face. "Ragar, please. This is very important to me, for reasons I can't explain."

Ragar studied Methos shrewdly. "Can't," he asked, "or won't?" Dismissing the question as he asked it, he added, "It was written in the earliest days of Atlantis, Methos. Even I find the language difficult at times, and I've spent my entire life studying it. You wouldn't be able to read it."

Methos lowered his eyes, then looked up. "I will be able to read it," he said with frightening certainty. "Just get me to it."

Ragar went still, the almost quivering stillness of an animal being hunted. He said nothing, completely absorbed by his examination of Methos, as if another moment's study would produce a flash of insight that would explain him. Seconds stretched into a full minute before he broke the pose. "If I do this for you," he said slowly, "you will tell me what it is that you're hiding."

"I'd risk my life by doing that, Ragar."

"I risk mine by smuggling you in to see the Book!" Ragar snapped. "Is it a bargain, Methos?"

Methos fell silent, once more regarding his companion. In time he inclined his head. "It is a bargain, Ragar. The Book, and then my story. How do we do this?"

The entrance beneath the House Aquarius garden was left unguarded, simply to avoid broadcasting the fact there was something worthy of guarding. Ragar leaned against the dead end wall, shoving lightly, and it swung inward, leaving Methos studying the overall width of the garden walls with mild curiousity.

"Come on," Ragar hissed, and disappeared down a latter built into the wall, barely two feet from the door.

Methos followed, swining the door shut again with a faint grating of stone. "I hope that opens again from down here."

"It does," Ragar said. "There's even a remarkably clever device which uses mirrors and allows you to check the surrounding area to be certain no one is there when you come out again."

"Good idea," Methos said. "Was it installed before or after someone got caught?"

Ragar struck up a light, lifting it to grin at his Immortal companion. "After. They say there were rather more recruits than usual that year. Someone came out in the middle of a birthday party."

Methos laughed. "Poor planning, that." He glanced around. The room they stood in was barely large enough to deserve the name, bleeding into the tunnel only a few feet away. "Tell me, where does a scholar learn the knack of lock-picking?"

Ragar cleared his throat, and turned down the tunnel. Methos ducked after him, realizing in dismay that the only reason he'd had head room was to permit the ladder that reached back up to the garden. Sighing, he rubbed his neck in anticipation of stiff muscles, as Ragar replied, "There are half a dozen rooms in the library that you can't get into unless you employ somewhat circumspect methods. I learned how to pick locks when I was about twelve." He was silent a while, concentrating on the steep downward slope before the ground leveled out and he followed a sharp twist in the stone. "It's come in surprisingly handy over my life, actually. Not in the least for sneaking in Aquarius' back door. Be glad I can. It's an easier way to access the Book than trying to ask permission."

"Are we likely to be caught?"

Ragar shook his head, following another bend. "No. The Book is left alone most of the time. It's fragile. We copy parts we want to study and use the copies down in the room."

"Why not copy the whole thing?"

"Half of it is unintelligible. Besides, the gods told us it needed to be protected. Making copies to distribute isn't a good way to protect something."

"Unless disaster should happen to strike and you should lose the original," Methos said. Ragar stopped abruptly and turned around to stare at him.

"Must you point out glaring follies in our logic?"

Methos blinked in surprise. "Sorry."

Ragar snorted with irritation and turned again, following yet another sharp curve.

"This was dug this way on purpose?" Methos asked.

"Oh no," Ragar said, lifting the light close to the wall, allowing a reflection. "The first section, the sharp downhill, had been carved out when someone broke through to a chute in the stone. They followed it to its end, or as close to it as they could. It comes out under water, not far from the harbor. After enough surveying, they determined it passed within yards of the temple." He gestured with the litter lantern, making light bounce off the walls. "See how smooth the walls are? My teacher thought there had been a river through here once. If you follow it the other way, it comes out in a deep basin outside the city."

"Where the blocked-off tunnel is?" Methos guessed.

"Indeed." Ragar continued down the passageway. "There's more than fifty feet of solid packed rock between that blockaded end and open tunnel." He swung the lantern forward, indicating the far end of the tunnel. "They didn't want to risk water damage to the Book, so the other end has also been blocked off. It's one of the things initiates do. Everyone has to add at least three feet of new stone during the three years they're students. Every time there's a major earthquake, someone goes tearing down to check on it. So far, though, nothing has budged the stones we've set in."

"Earthquakes?" Methos asked. "Are there a lot of those?"

Ragar nodded, unconcerned. "I'm surprised you haven't felt one. There's usually one or two every moon that are strong enough to feel, but nothing damaging. You get used to it. We don't think much of them."

Methos laughed. "I'll try to adopt that cavalier attitude, Ragar. It may take some time."

"There are no earthquakes where you come from?"

Good question. "No, though I've felt them a few times in my travels. Disconcerting, to have the earth shift under your feet."

Ragar laughed, about to respond, but pulled up as the men rounded yet another corner and faced a dead end. Methos frowned at it curiously. "Either that's a door or your initiates have been a little too thorough."

"The former," Ragar chuckled, lowering the lantern to inspect a small crevasse in the stone. Two faint clicks sounded as he poked his finger into the niche. The wall swung back silently. "The Book," Ragar said a little dryly, and gestured Methos into the room.

"You first. I insist." Though Methos kept his tone light, Ragar glanced at him sharply before stepping through the doorway into the room beneath the temple.

It was only slightly smaller than the temple itself. To Methos' relief, it was also carved a little higher than the tunnel had been. He straightened, rubbing his neck as he looked around. The top of his head barely missed the ceiling; had his hair had been cut short, the ceiling would have bent it.

Ragar circled the room, lighting torches spaced evenly every few feet. A longish table dominated the rom, half a dozen chairs scattered around it. The door directly behind Methos appeared to be the only exit or entrance. Methos squinted at the walls as he followed Ragar around. "You said the initiates worked to fill the tunnel from the other side. I don't see another door."

"You wouldn't see that one if it were closed behind you," Ragar said, completing his circuit. "But there's only the one door into this room. This is all hand carved. We left the river chute a few minutes ago. The other door you're looking for was built between the natural tunnel and the one we created, back where we turned the last time. It's beyond there that they add to the blockade."

"Oh." Methos came to a stop in front of the door again, beside Ragar. "I don't mean to be difficult," he said after a moment, "but there are no books in here."

Ragar crossed the room again, locating a chisel in the stone, completely indistinguishable from any other to Methos' eyes. The same double-click the door had made sounded, and a wide slab of rock detatched itself from the surrounding stone. The scholar lifted another slab out from within it, and set the second on the table, pressing his fingertips against seven different points, in rapid succession. A hairline crack appeared in the box, and he slid the two halves apart.

"Minyah has a box like that," Methos said with fascination. "How do they do that?"

"I have no idea. I don't make them." With delicate precision, Ragar lifted a tome from the black stone box. The outside covers were a warm dark wood, thin sheets of paper held in place by long leather thongs. The cover was carved with the circle that symbolized the Houses of Atlantis, thirteen studs rising from the depressed wood. Within was the elegant pouring jug of water that represented Aquarius. Excluding the covers, the book was nearly five inches thick, by far the largest volume of any sort Methos had ever seen. "Gods of heaven and earth," he murmured, reaching a tentative hand towards the book. "It's beautiful."

Ragar set it on the table, holding it in place by way of his fingertips, barely touching the wooden cover. "If you damage it," he said levelly, and Methos looked up.

"I won't," he said swiftly, before Ragar had time to complete the thtreat. "I would sooner die." While the statement was wildly untrue, it soothed Ragar, who lifted his hands tonudge the volume towards Methos.

"I would suggest you read and absorb quickly. In time, you may be accepted into the circle of protectorates, but until then, this will be your sole opportunity to study it."

Methos was already pulling a chair towards himself, a long leg stretched out to hook the nearest and drag it across the floor. Judging it close enough without looking, he sat down on the very edge, nearly sliding off. Impatiently, he hitched it forward, and carefully drew the book across the table to open it.

Neat handwriting lettered across the page, ancestor to the texts he had already studied. For a moment Methos simply studied the scripting, then looked at Ragar. "Atlantis developed a written language like this orignally? Not a pictography script first?"

Ragar settled down in another chair, pulling out a bundle of papers from a bag he'd carried down with him. "Our gods gave us our written language. It's evolved since then, but that's the oldest example we have. When they gave us the Book, they gave us writing. It's over a thousand years old."

Methos looked down at the book, hardly breathing. "More than a thousand years?" he asked wonderingly, all too aware that the wonder would be interpreted as awe of being in the presence of something of such great age. It was partly true, but the hope that the Immortals might be explained in the thin pages struck a deeper chord in the ancient man.

"It tells its own history," Ragar said. "Read."

They tell us we are gods, the text began, and it is somehow easier to not argue.

They tell us we are gods. We are not; we are only men and women. Our godhood lies in an Immortality we didn't ask for, and in the knowledge gained over years of study.

My name is Lonan. I no longer remember how long I have been alive. The thirteenth generation of Atlantis is growing up around me now, and my family and I have been on this island thousands of years. We came here to avoid the war that is the way of life beyond Atlantis. Our kind, we Immortals, fight a deadly Game, surviving one day to the next by killing our brothers. We 'gods', my brothers and sisters and I, turned our back on that Game a long time ago, to use our Immortality to better ends. We came to Atlantis, and we have studied here for uncounted centuries.

A thousand years ago, we began to feel weary. It may be that without the Game we pall; it makes little difference. We formed a plan, to build a civilization here of a people whose lives were dictated by scholarship, not war. We were never completely alone on the island; dozens of small fishing villages litter the coast. We went among them and chose the wisest, the brightest, the most intuitive of them, and brought them to this valley in the mountains.

We taught them as best we could. After so long apart from mortals, it came as a shock to us, their brief lifespans. Still, they were eager to learn, and we taught them. With them we built the city of Atlantis, and we built the Houses in the hills, and named them for the constellations in the sky. The symbol of Atlantis became a circle, never-ending, with thirteen points to represent the Houses. Each House took its sky-sign and rendered it within the circle, and those thirteen signed Houses made the government of the city and the island.

None of this happened quickly. In each new generation, more people came to the city, and in each generation some of those newcomers joined Houses, to keep fresh blood and fresh ideas circulating. The building, the studying, the creation of a new way of life took hundreds of years, and through it all we guided them.

I suppose it's no wonder they call us gods. We didn't age and we didn't change, mentors to every generation. When they read this book we'll be gone, and I do not know if they will still call us gods. I cannot explain where we came from, any more than they can, and I wonder if it is not easier to simply call us gods, and forget the rest.

Some four hundred years ago there seemed a stabilization, a sudden cohesiveness that had not been there before. Atlantis had reached adulthood, and no longer needed our supervision so much.

Most of our time since then has been spent writing this book, and creating gifts for the Houses. This book, the greatest of the gifts, will go to Aquarius, the first House. In it are notes on everything we have learned in our centuries of study. We have chosen to not write out our learnings in detail for the Houses; mortal man is a violent and vicious creature, and I fear what might happen if we were to offer them our studies wholesale. Instead there are pointers, enough detail to set them on the right path. They will learn, over the years, how to create the things we have left outlines of.

When they reach the point of being able to understand what we offer, the other gifts will be useful as examples. The treth, the horned horses, have a universal solvent in the horn; it's a compound that can be rediscovered with the right knowledge. The cup is of the same material, though it takes specific liquids to trigger the solvent. Half a dozen of the gifts -- all of them that are meant to be worn, including the crystal -- prevent cellular decay and afford a degree of physical protection. The larger the item, the more effective it is in the second half of this; it was a side-effect, not our primary goal. When Atlantis has reached the level of technology to be able to replicate the gifts, they should be able to use the ones we left as guidelines.

My brothers and sisters and I are tired of our long lives. We left the world behind so long ago that I wonder if there are even any more like us still beyond Atlantis. Since we have had no Immortal visitors in many centuries, we think it is likely we are the last.

If that's so, it is time for the Gathering, and that, perhaps, explains our weariness. The book is finished, and we've decided who will be the last of us, the one to gain the Prize. I will not be that one, and I think in the end I am grateful for that. I've journied in this world long enough, and have helped to create a legacy in Atlantis that should stand through time. It is enough.

Methos stared at the last paragraph a long time, rarely blinking. "But there was no Gathering," he whispered. "We're still here."

"Eh?" Ragar looked up from his papers. "What?"

Methos lifted his head slowly. "You've read the introduction? Written by Lonan, about how they were not gods at all?"

Ragar smiled. "What else would you call them? They lived thousands of years."

Methos shook his head a little. "What happened?" he asked. "When the gods decided it was time to leave you, what happened?"

"There was a lightning storm," Ragar replied. "Legend tells us that it fell from the sky for hours, and when it finally ceased, the gods were gone and the city was bleached white." He gestured at the book. "The book actually tells us where the white stone was mined to build the city, centuries ago, but Methuselah swore to the truth of the lightning storm. He was a child then, maybe the last of us to speak with the gods."

Methos closed his eyes. "Did he keep any records? Any written stories of what he saw then?"

Ragar frowned thoughtfully. "Not that I've ever seen, but I've never looked for them. There aren't any in the library, certainly. You could ask someone at Scorpio. That was his House. If there are any papers, they might have them stored away somewhere. Why?"

Methos looked back down at the brief history. "Do you believe they lived as long as they did?"

"All of our histories, all of the old tales, agree they did. I know Methuselah lived hundreds of years himself, with the crystal they gave him. I think it's not impossible. What," Ragar smiled, "you want to live forever?"

Methos glanced up again. "Don't we all?"

The other scholar smiled again. "Methuselah said he was tired of living, when he gave his stone to Noah. He said mortal man was not meant to live nine hundred years."

Mortal men, perhaps. Voice soft, Methos said, "I can't imagine tiring of living."

Ragar laughed. "You're young, Methos. Thirty years, perhaps? I've seen more than fifty, a good long life, and there are days when I think I'm ready to lay down this life and join the gods on their mountaintops."

Methos lowered his eyes to hide a smile, and turned the next page of the book. The Immortal who'd written the introduction had meant what he said: the notes on the fine paper were cryptic, sketches and brief explanations enough to give a hint of the destination, but not enough to see the path clearly. The stories he hoped for were not there. Instead, there were pages detailing the building of ships, of pyramids; the arts of smithery and warfare, medical practices and plumbing.

A little less than half of the way into the book the formulas and notes became indecipherable. Accompanying notes were legible, but incomprehensible: "Cellular decay reversable by injection of select hormones; see diagram. Crossreference cloak schematics." "Genetic structure unstable at this stage; do not experiment with solvent." Methos' shoulders dropped and he looked up at Ragar, clearing his throat to speak for the first time in hours.

"How much of this can you understand?"

Ragar glanced at where Methos had the book open to, and shook his head. "Turn back about thirty pages. The first third or so we've been able to follow. It's concrete material, building and surgery, things we can figure out. There's a jump, after the section on surgery, though. It goes into topics we can't even begin to understand, things that seem to have to do with the human body, but we're not sure what." He shook his head again. "Eventually we'll get there. The gods didn't want us to have the knowledge until we were ready to figure it out on our own, with only a few hints. I'm not sure how much of the information is theoretical and how much is actually tested."

Methos sighed, carefully closing the book. "It's a little humbling, isn't it? Being presented with so much information we can't fathom."

Ragar nodded, smiling wryly, and tucked his papers away before lifting the Book and replacing it in its black stone box. Sliding it back home into the wall, he asked, "Did you find what you were looking for?"

Methos shook his head. "No. I should have expected as much, I suppose. I only ended up with more questions."

"That's the way of things," Ragar agreed philosophically. "Come. It's a long walk back, and you have a story to tell me."

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